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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



* 



COMPANIONS OF MY 



SOLITUDE 



COMPANIONS 



OP MX 



SOLITUDE 

Sw Ar+l-w-r Wei c>s 

1 1 * 




THE FIFTH EDITION 




. 



LONDON 
JOHN W. PARKER AND SON WEST STRAND 

IS57 






LONDON : 

SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTEE8, 

CHANDOS STREET. 



COMPANIONS 



SOLITUDE. 



CHAPTER I. 

WHEN in the country, I live much alone : 
and, as I wander over downs and com- 
mons and through lanes with lofty hedges, many 
thoughts come into my mind. I find, too, that 
the same ones come again and again, and are 
spiritual companions. At times they insist upon 
being with me, and are resolutely intrusive. I 
think I will describe them, that so I may have 
more mastery over them. Instead of suffering 
them to haunt me as vague faces and half- 
fashioned resemblances, I will make them into 
distinct pictures, which I can give away, or hang 
up in my room, turning them, if I please, with 
their faces to the wall ; and in short be free to 
do what I like with them. 

B 



[ 2 ] 

Ellesmere will then be able to deride them at 
his pleasure ; and so they will go through the 
alembic of sarcasm : Dunsford will have some- 
thing more to approve, or rebuke ; Lucy some- 
thing more to love, or to hate. Even my dogs 
and my trees will be the better for this work, as 
when it is done, they will, perhaps, have a more 
disengaged attention from me. Faithful, stead- 
fast creatures, both dogs and trees, how easy and 
charming is your converse with me compared 
with the eager, exclusive, anxious way in which 
the creations of my own brain, who at least 
should have some filial love and respect for me, 
insist upon my attention. 

It was a thoroughly English day to-day, 
sombre and quiet, the sky coming close to the 
earth, and everything seeming to be of one 
colour. I wandered over the downs, not heed- 
ing much which way I went, and driven by one 
set of thoughts which of late have had great 
hold upon me. 

I think often of the hopes of the race here, of 
what is to become of our western civilization, 
and what can be made of it. Others may 
pursue science or art, and I long to do so too ; 



[ 3 ] 

but I cannot help thinking of the state and for- 
tunes of large masses of mankind, and hoping 
that thought may do something for them. After 
all my cogitations, my mind generally returns 
to one thing, the education of the people. For 
want of general cultivation how greatly indi- 
vidual excellence is crippled. Of what avail, for 
example, is it for any one of us to have sur- 
mounted any social terror, or any superstition, 
while his neighbours lie sunk in it i His con- 
duct in reference to them becomes a constant 
care and burden. 

Meditating upon general improvement, I often 
think a great deal about the climate in these 
parts of the world ; and I see that without much 
husbandry of our means and resources, it is diffi- 
cult for us to be anything but low barbarians. 
The difficulty of living at all in a cold, damp, 
destructive climate is great. Socrates went 
about with very scanty clothing, and men praise 
his wisdom in caring so little for the goods of 
this life. He ate sparingly, and of mean food. 
That is not the wa}^ I suspect, that we can make 
a philosopher here. There are people who would 
deride one for saying this, and would contend 
that it gives too much weight to worldly things. 



[ 4 ] 

But I suspect they are misled by notions bor- 
rowed from Eastern climates. Here we must 
make prudence one of the substantial virtues. 

One thing, though, I see, and that is, that 
there is a quantity of misplaced labour, of labour 
which is not consumed in stern contest with the 
rugged world around us, in the endeavour to 
compel Nature to give us our birthright, but in 
fighting with ' strong delusions' of all kinds, or 
rather in putting up obstacles which we labo- 
riously knock down again, in making Chinese 
mazes between us and objects we have daily need 
of, and where we should have only the shortest 
possible line to go. As I have said elsewhere, 
half the labour of the world is pure loss — the 
work of Sisyphus rolling up stones to come down 
again inevitably. 

Law, for example, what a loss is there; of 
time, of heart, of love, of leisure! There are 
good men whose minds are set upon improving 
the law; but I doubt whether any of them are 
prepared to go far enough. Here again we must 
hope most from general improvement of the 
people. Perhaps, though, some one great genius 
will do something for us. I have often fancied 
that a man might play the part of Brutus in the 
law. He might simulate madness in order to 



[ 5 ] 

ensure freedom. He might make himself a great 
lawyer, rise to eminence in the profession, and 
then turn round and say, C I am not going to 
enjoy this high seat and dignity; but intend 
henceforward to be an advocate for the people of 
this country against the myriad oppressions and 
vexations of the law. No Chancellorships or 
Chief- Justiceships for me. I have only pretended 
to be this slave in order that you should not 
say that I am an untried and unpractical man — 
that I do not understand your mysteries.' 

This of course is not the dramatic way in 
which such a thing would be done. But there 
is greatness enough in the world for it to be 
clone. If no lawyer rises up to fill the place 
which my imagination has assigned for him, we 
must hope that statesmen will do something for 
us in this matter, that they will eventually pro- 
tect us (though, hitherto, they never have done 
so) from lawyers. 

There are many things done now in the law 
at great expense by private individuals which 
ought to be done for all by officers of the State. 
It is as if each individual had to make a road for 
himself whenever he went out, instead of using 
the king's highway. 

Many of the worst things in the profession 



[ 6 ] 

take place low down in it. I am not sure that 
I would not try the plan of having public nota- 
ries with very extensive functions, subjecting 
them to official control. What exclamations 
about freedom we should hear, I dare say, if any 
large measure of this kind were proposed ; which 
exclamations and their consequences have long 
been, in my mind, a chief obstacle to our pos- 
sessing the reality of freedom. What difference 
is it whether I am a slave to my lawyer, or sub- 
ject indirectly to more official control in the 
changing of my property. I do not know a 
meaner and sadder portion of a man's existence, 
or one more likely to be full of impatient sor- 
row, than that which he spends in waiting at the 
offices of lawyers. 

It is to be observed that all satire falls short 
when aimed against the practices in the Law. 
~No man can imagine, not Swift himself, things 
more shameful, absurd and grotesque than the 
things which do take place daily in the Law. 
Satire becomes .merely narrative. A modern 
novelist depicts a man ruined by a legacy of ( a 
thousand pounds, and sleeping under a four- 
legged table because it reminded him of the days 
when he used to sleep in a four-post bed. This 



L 1 1 

last touch about the bed is humorous, but the 
substance of the story is dry narrative only. 

These evils are not of yesterday, or of this 
country only; I observe that the first Spanish 
colonists in America write home to the Govern- 
ment begging them not to allow lawyers to come 
to the colony. 

At the same time, we must not forget how 
many of the evils attributed solely to the pro- 
ceedings of lawyers, result from the want of 
knowledge of business in the world in general, 
and its inaptness for business, the anxiety to 
arrange more and for longer time than is wise 
or possible, and the occasional trusting of affairs 
to women, who in our country are brought up to 
be utterly incompetent to the management of 
affairs. Still, with all these allowances, and 
taking care to admit, as we must, if we have 
any fairness, that notwithstanding the element 
of chicanery and perverse small-mindedness in 
which they are involved, there are many ad- 
mirable and very high-minded men to be found 
in all grades of the law, (perhaps a more curious 
instance of the power of the human being to 
maintain its structure unimpaired in the midst 
of a hostile element, than that a man should be 



[ 8 ] 

able to abide in a heated oven,) admitting all 
these extenuating circumstances, we must never- 
theless declare, as I set out by saying, that Law 
affords a notable example of loss of time, of 
heart, of love, of leisure. * 

Well, then, as another instance of misplaced 
labour, I suppose we must take a good deal of 
what goes on in schools and colleges, and, indeed, 
in parliaments and other assemblages of men, not 
to speak of the wider waste of means and labour 
which prevails in all physical works such as 
buildings, furniture, decorations — and not merely 
waste but obstruction, so that if there were a 
good angel attendant on the human race, with 
power to act on earth, it would destroy as fast as 
made a considerable portion of men's productions 
as the kindest thing which could be done for man 
and the best instruction for him. 

The truth is, we must considerably address 
ourselves to cope with Nature. Here again, too, 
we come to the want of more extended and 

* Many of the adjuncts and circumstances of the Law 
are calculated to maintain it as a mystery : I allude to the 
uncouth form and size of deeds, the antiquated words, the 
unusual kind of hand-writing. Physicians' prescriptions 
may have a better effect for being expressed mysteriously, 
but legal matters cannot surely be made too clear, even in 
the merest minutiae. 



[ 9 ] 

general cultivation, for otherwise we cannot fully 
enjoy or profit by scientific discovery. At present 
a man in a civilized country is surrounded by 
things which are greater than he is ; he does not 
understand them, cannot regulate them, cannot 
mend them. 

This ignorance proceeds in some respects from 
division of labour. A man knows how to make 
a pin's head admirably, but is afraid to handle 
or give an opinion upon things which he has not 
daily knowledge of. This applies not only to 
physical things, but to law, church, state, and the 
arts and sciences generally. 

After all, the advancement of the world de- 
pends upon the use of small balances of advan- 
tage over disadvantage, for there is compensa- 
tion everywhere and in everything. No one 
discovery resuscitates the world ; certainly no 
physical one. Each new good thought, or word, 
or deed, brings its shadow with it; and, as I 
have just said, it is upon the small balances of 
gain that we get on at all. Often too this occurs 
indirectly, as when moral gains give physical 
gains, and these again give room for further 
moral and intellectual culture. 

Frequently it seems as if the faculties of man 
were not quite adequate as yet to his situation. 



[ io ] 

This is perhaps more to be seen in contemplat- 
ing individuals, than in looking at mankind in 
general. The individual seems the sport of cir- 
cumstance. When Napoleon invaded Russia 
(the proximate cause of his downfall) though 
doubtless there were very adverse and unfortu- 
nate circumstances attendant upon that invasion, 
yet, upon the whole, it gave a good opportunity 

for working out the errors of the man's mind and 

t 

system. The circumstances were not unfair, as 
we may say, against him. Most prosperous men, 
perhaps I should say most men, have in the 
course of their lives their campaign in Russia — 
when they strain their fortune to the uttermost, 
and often it breaks under them. I did not mean 
anything like this when I said that the indi- 
vidual seems the sport of circumstance. Neither 
did I mean that small continuous faults and mis- 
doings have considerable effect upon a man, such 
as the errors and vices of youth, which are si- 
lently put down to a man from day to day like 
his reckoning at an inn. But I alluded to those 
very unfortunate concurrences of circumstances, 
which most men's lives will tell them of, where 
a man from some small error or omission, from 
some light carelessness, or overtrust, in thought- 
less innocence or inexperience, gets entangled in 



[ « J 

a web of adverse circumstances which will be 
company for him on sleepless nights and anxious 
days throughout a large part of his life. Were 
success in life (morally or physically) the main 
object here, it certainly would seem as if a little 
more faculty in man were sadly needed. A 
similar thing occurs often to the body, when a 
man, from some small mischance or oversight, 
lays the beginning of a disease which shall de- 
press and enfeeble him while he sojourns upon 
earth. And it seems, when he looks back, as if 
such a little thing would have saved him; if he 
had not crossed over the road, if he had not 
gone to see his friend on that particular day, if 
the dust had not been so unpleasant on that 
occasion, the whole course of his life would have 
been different. Living, as we do, in the midst of 
stern gigantic laws which crush everything down 
that comes in their way, which know no excuses, 
admit of no small errors, never send a man back 
to learn his lesson and try him again, but are 
as inexorable as Fate — living I say with such 
powers about us (unseen, too, for the most part), 
it does seem as if the faculties of man were 
hardly as yet adequate to his situation here. 

Such considerations as the above tend to 



[ » ] 

charity and humility; and they point also to 
the existence of a future state. 

As regards charity, for example, a man might 
extend to others the ineffable tenderness which 
he has for some of his own sins and errors, be- 
cause he knows the whole history of them ; and 
though, taken at a particular point, they appear 
very large and very black, he knew them in their 
early days when they were play-fellows instead 
of tyrant demons. There are others which he 
cannot so well smooth over, because he knows 
that in their case inward proclivity coincided 
with outward temptation; and, if he is a just 
man, he is well aware that if he had not erred 
here, he would have erred there; that experi- 
ence, even at famine price, was necessary for him 
in those matters. But, in considering the mis- 
doings and misfortunes of others, he may as well 
begin at least by thinking that they are of the 
class which he has found from his own experience 
to contain a larger amount of what we call ill- 
fortune than of anything like evil disposition. 
For time and chance, says the Preacher, happen 
to all men. 

Thus I thought in my walk this dull and 
dreary afternoon, till the rising of the moon and 
the return from school of the children with their 



[ *3 ] 

satchels coming over the down warned me, too, 
that it was time to return home : and so, trying 
not to think any more of these things, I looked 
at the bare beech trees, still beautiful, and the 
dull sheep-ponds scattered here and there, and 
thought that the country even in winter and in 
these northern regions, like a great man in ad- 
versity and just disgrace, was still to be looked 
at with hopeful tenderness, even if, in the man's 
case, there must also be somewhat of respectful 
condemnation. As I neared home I comforted 
myself, too, by thinking that the inhabitants of 
sunnier climes do not know how winning and 
joyful is the look of the chimney-tops of our 
homes in the midst of what to them would seem 
most desolate and dreary. 



I 



CHAPTER II. 

SUPPOSE it has happened to most men who 
observe their thoughts at all, to notice how- 
some expression returns again and again in the 
course of their meditations, or, indeed, of their 
business, forming as it were a refrain to all they 
think, or do, for any given day. Sometimes, too, 
this refrain has no particular concern with the 
thought or business of the day; but seems as if 
it belonged to some under-current of thought 
and feeling. This at least is what I experienced 
to-day myself, being haunted by a bit of old 
Spanish poetry, which obtruded itself, sometimes 
inopportunely, sometimes not so, in the midst of 
all my work or play. The words were these : 

' Quan presto se va el placer, 
Como despu.es de acordado 

Da dolor ; 
Como, al nuestro parecer, 
Qualquiera tiempo pasado 

Eue mejor.' 



[ *s ] 

How quickly passes pleasure away. 
How after being granted 

It gives pain ; 
How in our opinion 
Any past time 

Was better (than that we passed in pleasure). 

It was not that I agreed with tbe sentiment, 
except as applied to vicious pleasure, being rather 
of Sydney Smith's mind, that the remembrance 
of past pleasure is present pleasure ; but I sup- 
pose the words chimed in with reflections on 
the past which formed the under-current of my 
thoughts, as I went through the wood of beeches 
which bounded my walk to-day. 

A critique had just been sent me of some 
literary production, in which the reviewer was 
very gracious in noticing the calmness and mo- 
deration of the author. c Ah my friend,' thought 
I to myself, 6 how differently you would write if 
you did but know the man as I do, and were 
aware what a fierce fellow he is with all his out- 
ward smoothness, hardly ruling at times thoughts 
which are anything but calm and moderate, yet 
struggling to be just, and knowing that violence 
is always loss ! ' 

From that I went on to consider how intense 
is the loneliness for the most part of any man 



[ *6 ] 

who endeavours to think — like the Mle wan- 
dering on through a desert country, with no 
tributary streams to cheer and aid it, and to be 
lost in sympathy with its main current. In 
politics, for example, such a man will have too 
affectionate a regard for the people to be a de- 
mocrat ; he would as soon leave his own children 
without guidance: and, on the other hand, he 
will have too great a regard for merit and fitness 
to be an aristocrat. He will find no one plank 
to walk up and down consistently; and will be 
always looking beyond measures which satisfy 
other men; and seeing perhaps that as regards 
politics themselves, greater things are to be done 
out of them than in them. 

I was silent in thought for a moment, and 
then my refrain came back again — 

' Qualquiera tiempo pasado 
Fue mejor.' 

And in a moment I went back, not to the plea- 
sures, but to the ambitious hopes and projects 
of youth. And when a man does reflect upon 
the ambitions which are as characteristic of that 
period of life as reckless courage or elastic step, 
and finds that at each stage of his journey since, 
some hope has dropped off as too burdensome, 



[ *7 ] 

or too romantic, till at last it is enough for him 
only to carry himself at all upright in this trou- 
blesome world — what thoughts come back upon 
him ! How he meditates upon his own errors 
and shortcomings, and sees that he has had not 
only the hardness, oiliness, and imperturbability, 
of the world to contend with, but that he him- 
self has generally been his worst antagonist. 

In this mood, I might have thrown myself 
upon the mound under a green beech tree that 
was near, the king of the woods, and uttered 
many lamentations : but, instead of doing any- 
thing of the kind, I walked sedately by it ; for, 
as we go on in life, we find we cannot afford ex- 
citement, and we learn to be parsimonious in our 
emotions. Again I muttered, 

1 Qualquiera tiempo pasado 
Fue mejor.' 

And I threw forward these words into the 
future, as if I were already blaming any ten- 
dency to unnecessary emotion. 

I entered now into another vein of thought, 
considering that kind Nature would not allow a 
man to be so very wise, nor for the sake of any 
good he might do to others, permit him to forfeit 
the benefit he must derive from his own errors, 
failures, and shortcomings. You may mean well, 

c 



[ i8 ] 

she says, and you might expect that I should 
give you any extraordinary furtherance, and not 
suffer you to be plagued with drawbacks and 
errors of your own, that so you might do your 
work undisturbed : but I love you too well for 
that. I sacrifice no one child for the benefit of 
the rest. You all must learn humility. 

I felt the truth of these words, and thereupon 
gave myself up to more cheerful thoughts. How 
much cheerfulness there is by the way in hu- 
mility. I listened to the cuckoo in the woods, 
hearing his tiresome but welcome noise for the 
first time in the year, and I looked out for the 
wild flowers that were just beginning to show 
themselves, and thought that, from the names of 
flowers, it is evident that, in former days, poets 
and scholars must have lived in the country and 
looked well at Nature. Else how came all these 
picturesque and poetical names, ' Love in idle- 
ness,' ' Venus's looking-glass,' and such like. 

But as the shades of evening came on in the 
wood, my thoughts went away from these simple 
topics ; the refrain, too, 

' Quan presto se va el placer/ 

sounded in my ears again ; and I passed on to 
meditations of like colour to those in the former 



[ *9 ] 

part of my walk. In addition to the other hin- 
drances I alluded to before, this also must come 
home to the mind of many a man of the present 
generation — how he is to discern, much more to 
teach, even in small things, without having clear 
views, or distinct convictions, upon some of the 
greatest matters — upon religious questions for 
instance ? And yet I suppose it must be tried. 
Even a man of Goethe's immense industry and 
great intellectual resources, feared to throw him- 
self upon the sea of biblical criticism. But, at 
the same time, how poor, timid and tentative 
must be all discourse built upon inferior motives. 
Ah, if we could but discern what is the right 
way and the highest way ! 

These doubts which beset men upon many of 
the greatest matters, are the direct result of the 
lies and falsification of our predecessors. Some- 
times when we look at the frightful errors which 
metaphorical expressions may have introduced, I 
do not wonder that Plato spoke in the hardest 
manner of poets. But man cannot narrate 
without metaphors, so much more does he see in 
every transaction than the bare circumstances. 

When I was at Milan and saw the glory of 
that town, the Last Supper by Leonardo da 



[ *> ] 

Vinci, I could not help thinking, as my way is, 
many things, not, perhaps, very closely connected 
with that grand work, but which it suggested to 
my mind. At first you may be disappointed in 
finding the figures so much faded, but soon, with 
patient looking, much comes into view : and, 
after marvelling at the inexpressible beauty which 
still remains, you find to your astonishment that 
no picture, no print, perhaps no description, has 
adequately represented what you can still trace 
in this work. Not only has it not been repre- 
sented, but it has been utterly misrepresented. 
The copyist thought he could tell the story better 
than the painter, and where the outlines are 
dim, was not content to leave them so, but must 
insert something of his own which is clearly 
wrong. This I thought is the way of most 
translation, and I might add, of most portrait- 
painting and nearly all criticism. And it occurred 
to me that the written history of the world was 
very like the prints of this fresco — namely, a 
clear account, a good deal of it utterly wrong, 
of what at first hand is considerably obliterated, 
and which, except in minds of the highest powers 
of imagination, to be a clear conception can 
hardly be a just one. 

And then, carrying my application still further 



[ 21 ] 

to the most important of all histories, I thought 
how the simple majesty of the original transac- 
tion had probably suffered a like misconception, 
from the fading of the material narrative, and 
still more from the weak inventions of those who 
could not represent accurately, and were impa- 
tient of any dimness (to their eyes) in the divine 
original. 

I often fancy how I should like to direct the 
intellectual efforts of men : and, if I had the 
power, how frequently I should direct them to 
those great subjects in metaphysics and theology 
which now men shun. 

What patient labour and what intellectual 
power are often bestowed in coming to a decision 
on any cause which involves much worldly pro- 
perty. Might there not be some great hearing 
of any of the intellectual and spiritual difficulties 
which beset the paths of all thoughtful men in 
the present age? 

Church questions, for example, seem to require 
a vast investigation. As it is, a book or pamphlet 
is put forward on one side, then another on the 
other side, and somehow the opposing facts and 
arguments seldom come into each other's pre- 
sence. And thus truth sustains great loss. 



[ 22 ] 

My own opinion is, if I can venture to say 
that I have an opinion, that what we ought to 
seek for is a church of the utmost width of doc- 
trine, and with the most beautiful expression that 
can be devised for that doctrine — the most beau- 
tiful expression, I mean, in words, in deeds, in 
sculpture, and in sacred song; which should have 
a simple easy grandeur in its proceedings that 
should please the elevated and poetical mind, 
charm the poor, and yet not lie open to jnst 
cavilling on the part of those somewhat hard, 
intellectual worshippers who must have a reason 
for everything; which should have vitality and 
growth in it; and which should attract and 
not repel those who love truth better than any 
creature. 

Pondering these things in the silence of the 
downs, I at last neared home; and found that 
the result of all my thoughts was that any 
would-be teacher must be contented and humble, 
or try to be so, in his efforts of any kind; and 
that if the great questions can hardly be deter- 
mined by man (divided too as he is from his 
brother in all ways) he must still try and do 
what he can on lower levels, hoping ever for 
more insight, and looking forward to the know- 
ledge which may be gained by death. 



CHAPTER III. 

TO-DAY, as the weather was cold and bois- 
terous, I could only walk under shelter of 
the yew hedge in my garden, which some gra- 
cious predecessor (all honour to him !) planted to 
keep off the dire north-west winds, and which, I 
fear, unless he was a very hardy plant himself, 
he did not live long enough to profit much by. 
Being so near home, my thoughts naturally took 
a domestic turn ; and I vexed myself by thinking 
that I had received no letter from my little boy. 
This was owing to the new post-office regulations 
which did not allow letters to go out from coun- 
try places, or be delivered at such places, on a 
Sunday. Oh those wicked Borgias, said I to 
myself, how much we have to blame them for ! 
To be sure, I know pretty well what the letter 
would be. 

* I hope you are well papa and I send you my 
love and I have got a kite and uncle George's 



[ *4 ] 

dog is very fierce. His name is Nero which was 
a Roman emperor nearly quite white only he has 
got two black spots just over his nose And I 
send my love to mamma and the children and I 
am your own little boy and affectionate son, 
'Leonard Milvertok' 

Not a very important, certainly not a very 
artistic, production this letter, but still it has 
its interest for the foolish paternal mind, and 
I should like to have received it to-day. It is 
greatly owing to those Borgias that I have not 
received this letter. Most of my neighbours 
imagine that their little petitions were the sole 
cause of these Post-office regulations; but I beg 
to go somewhat further back, and I come to 
Pope Alexander the Sixth, and lay a great deal 
of blame on him. The pendulous folly of man- 
kind oscillates as far in this direction as it has 
come from that ; and an absurd Puritan is only 
a correlative to a wicked Pope. 

From such reflections, I fell to considering 
Puritanism generally, and I am afraid I came to 
a different conclusion from that which would 
have been popular at any of the late public 
meetings; but then I console myself by an 
aphorism of Ellesmere's, who is wont to remark, 



[ *5 ] 

' How exactly proportioned to a man's ignorance 
of the subject is the noise he makes about it at 
a public meeting.' Knowledge brings doubts 
and exceptions and limitations which, though 
occasionally some aids to truth, are all hindrances 
to vigorous statement. 

But to go back to what I thought about 
Puritanism — for I endeavoured to methodize 
my thoughts, and the following is the course 
they took. 

What are the objects of life, as far as regards 
this world ? Its first wants, I answer, namely, 
food and raiment. What besides 1 Marrying 
and the rearing of children; and, in general, the 
cultivation of the affections. So far Puritans 
would agree with us. 

But suppose all these things to be tempered 
with gaiety and festivity : what element of 
wickedness has necessarily entered *? None that 
I can perceive. Self-indulgence takes many 
forms; and we should bear in mind that there 
may be a sullen sensuality as well as a gay 
one. 

But the truth is, there is a secret belief amongst 
some men that God is displeased with man's 
happiness; and in consequence they slink about 
creation, ashamed and afraid to enjoy anything. 



[ *« ] 

They answer, we do not object to rational 
pleasures. 

But who, my good people, shall exactly define 
rational pleasures? You are pleased with a 
flower; to cultivate flowers is what you call a 
rational pleasure : there are people, however, to 
whom a flower is somewhat insipid, but they 
perhaps dote upon music, which, however, is un- 
fortunately not one of your rational pleasures — 
chiefly, as I believe, because it is mainly a social 
one. Why is there anything necessarily wrong 
in social pleasures 1 Certainly some of the most 
dangerous vices, such as pride, are found to flou- 
rish in solitude with more vigour than in society : 
and a man may be deadly avaricious who has 
never even gone out to a tea-party. 

Once I happened to overhear a dialogue some- 
what similar to that which Charles Lamb, perhaps, 
only feigned to hear. I was travelling in a rail- 
way carriage with a most precise-looking formal 
person, the Arch- Quaker, if there be such a 
person. His countenance was very noble, or 
had been so, before it was frozen up. He said 
nothing : I felt a great respect for him. At last 
his mouth opened. I listened with attention : I 
had hitherto lived with foolish, gad-about, dinner- 
eating, dancing people : now I was going to hear 



[ *7 ] 

the words of retired wisdom ; when he thus ad- 
dressed his young daughter sitting opposite, 
' Hast thee heard how Southamptons went 
lately ? ' (in those days South-western Railway 
shares were called Southamptons,) and she re- 
plied with like gravity, giving him some informa- 
tion that she had picked up about Southamp- 
tons yesterday evening. 

I leant back rather sickened as I thought 
what was probably the daily talk and the daily 
thoughts in that family, from which I conjec- 
tured all amusement was banished save that 
connected with intense money-getting. 

Well, but exclaims the advocate of Puritan- 
ism, I do not admit that my clients, on abjuring 
the pleasures of this world, fall into pride, 
or sullen sensuality, or intense money-getting. 
They 'only secure to themselves more time for 
works of charity and for the love of God. 

You are an adroit advocate, and are careful, 
by not pushing your case too far, to give me the 
least possible room for reply. They secure to 
themselves more time for these good works you 
say. Do they do them ? But the truth is, in 
order to meet your remark and to extract the 
good there is in it, I must begin by saying that 



[ •« ] 

Puritanism, as far as it is an abnegation of self, 
is good, or may be so. But this is most surely 
the case, when it turns its sufferings and priva- 
tions to utility. It has always appeared to me 
that there is so much to be done in this world, 
that all self-inflicted suffering which cannot be 
turned to good account for others, is a loss — a 
loss, if you may so express it, to the spiritual 
world. 

The Puritanism which I object to is that 
which avoids some pleasure, and exhausts in in- 
jurious comment and attack upon other people 
any leisure and force of mind which it may 
have gained by its abstinence from the plea- 
sure. 

I can understand and sympathize with the man 
who says 6 1 enjoy festivity, but I cannot go to 
the feast I am bidden to, to-night, for there are 
sick people who must be first attended to.' But 
I do not love the man who stays away from the 
feast and employs his leisure in delivering a sour 
discourse on the wickedness of the others who 
are invited to the feast, and who go to it. 

Moreover, this censoriousness is not only a 
sin, but the inventor of many sins. Indeed the 
manufacture of sins is so easy a manufacture, that 
I am convinced man could readily be persuaded 



[ *9 ] 

that it was wicked to use the left leg as much as 
the right; whole congregations would only per- 
mit themselves to hop ; and, what is more to our 
present point, would consider that, when they 
walked in the ordinary fashion, they were com- 
mitting a deadly sin. Now I should not think 
that the man who were to invent this sin, would 
be a benefactor to the human race. 

You often hear in a town, or village, a bit of 
domestic history, which seems at first to militate 
against what I have been saying, but is in reality 
very consistent with it. The story is of some 
poor man, and is apt to run thus. He began to 
frequent the alehouse; he sought out amuse- 
ments ; there was a neighbouring fair where he 
first showed his quarrelsome disposition; then 
came worse things ; and now here he is in prison. 
Yes, I should reply, he frequented with a stealthy 
shame those places which you, who would ignore 
all amusement, have suffered to be most coarse 
and demoralizing. All along he had an exag- 
gerated notion of the blame that he was justly 
liable to from his first steps in the downward 
path : the truth unfortunately is, that you go a 
long way to make a small error into a sin, when 
you miscall it so. I would not, therefore, have 
a clergyman talk of the alehouse as if it were the 



[ 30 ] 

pit of Acheron. On the contrary, I would have 
him acknowledge that, considering the warmth 
and cheerfulness to be found in the sanded par- 
lour of the village inn, it is very natural that 
men should be apt to frequent it. I would have 
him, however, go on to show what frequenting 
the alehouse mostly leads to, and how the la- 
bourer's home might be made to rival the ale- 
house : and I would have him help to make it 
so, or, in some way to provide some substitute 
for the alehouse. 

The evils of competition are very considerable, 
and many people in these times hold up compe- 
tition as the great monster evil of the age. I do 
not know how that may be; but I am sure that 
the competition there is in the way of puritanical 
demonstration is very injurious to sincerity. This 
competition is the child of fear. A is afraid that 
his neighbour B will not think well of him, be- 
cause he (A) does or permits something which C, 
another neighbour, will not allow in his house. 
Surely this is little else than mere man-worship. 
It puts one in mind of the story of that congre- 
gation of the Church of England, who begged 
their Clergyman to give them longer sermons — 
not that they were fond of long discourses — but 
that they might not always be out of church 



[ 3i ] 

before some neighbouring congregation of Wes- 
leyans or Independents. 

Returning to the imaginary advocate for Puri- 
tanism who said that it secured more time for 
works of charity and for the love of God. 

I do not know whether other people's obser- 
vation will tally with mine ; but as far as I have 
observed, it appears to me that charity requires 
the sternest labour and the most anxious thought ; 
that, in short, it is one of the most difficult things 
in the world, and is not altogether a matter for 
leisure hours. This remark applies to the more 
serious functions of charity. But, we must re- 
member, that the whole of charity is not com- 
prised in carrying about gifts to one another, or, 
to speak more generally, in remedying the mate- 
rial evils suffered by those around us; else life 
would indeed be a dreary affair; but there are 
exquisite little charities to be performed in refer- 
ence to social pleasures. 

Then, as to the love of God, I do not venture 
to say much upon so solemn a theme; but it 
does occur to me, that we should talk and think 
very humbly about our capacity in matters so 
much above us. At any rate I do not see why 
the love of God should withdraw us largely from 
our fellow-man. That love we believe was 



[ 32 ] 

greatest in Him who graced with his presence 
the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee; who was 
never known to shun or ignore the existence of 
the vicious; and to whom, more than to all 
other teachers/ the hypocrite seems to have been 
particularly odious. 

But there is another very important conside- 
ration to be weighed by those who are fearful 
of encouraging amusements, especially amongst 
their poorer brethren. What are the generality 
of people to do ; or to think of, for a considerable 
portion of each day, if they are not allowed to 
busy themselves with some form of recreation? 
Here is this infinite creature, man, who looks be- 
fore and after, whose swiftness of thought is such, 
even among the dullest of the species, as would 
perhaps astonish the brightest, who are apt to 
imagine that none think but themselves; and 
you fancy that he can be quite contented with 
providing warmth and food for himself and those 
he has to love and cherish. Food and warmth ! 
content with that ! not he : and we should 
greatly despise him if he could be. Why is it 
that in all ages small towns and remote villages 
have fostered little malignities of all kinds? 
The true answer is, that people will backbite one 



[ 33 ] 

another to any extent rather than not be amused. 
Nay, so strong is this desire for something to 
go on that may break the monotony of life, that 
people, not otherwise ill-natured, are pleased 
with the misfortune of their neighbours, solely 
because it gives something to think of, something 
to talk about. They imagine how the principal 
actors and sufferers concerned in the misfortune 
will bear it ; what they will do ; how they will 
look: and so the dull bystander forms a sort of 
drama for himself. He would, perhaps, be told 
that it is wicked for him to go to such an enter- 
tainment: he makes one out for himself not 
always innocently, 

You hear Clergymen in country parishes de- 
nouncing the ill-nature of their parishioners : it 
is in vain : the better sort of men try to act up 
to what they are told; but really it is so dull in 
the parish, that a bit of scandal is welcome to the 
heart. These poor people have nothing to think 
about; nature shows them comparatively little, 
for art and science have not taught them to look 
behind the scenes, or even at the scenes ; litera- 
ture they know nothing of; they cannot have 
gossip about the men of the past (which is the 
most innocent kind of gossip), in other words, 
read and discuss history; they have no delicate 

D 



[ 34 ] 

handiwork to amuse them; in short, talk they 
must, and talk they will, about their neighbours, 
whose goings-on are a perpetual puppet-show to 
them. 

But, to speak more gravely, man, even the 
most sluggish-minded man, craves amusement of 
some kind; and his wiser and more powerful 
brethren will show their wisdom, or their want 
of it, in the amusements they contrive for him. 

We need not be afraid that in England any 
art or innocent amusement will be cultivated too 
much. The genius of the people, though kindly, 
is severe. And that is why there is so much 
less danger of their being injured, if any one is, 
by recreation. Cyrus kept the Lydians tame, 
we are told, by allowing them to cultivate music ; 
the Greeks were perhaps prevented from becom- 
ing dominant by a cultivation of many arts; but 
the Anglo-Saxons, like the Romans, can afford 
to cultivate art and recreations of all kinds. Such 
pursuits will not tame them too much. To con- 
tend, occasionally, against the bent of the genius, 
or the circumstances, of a people, is one of the 
great arts of statesmanship. The same thing 
which is to be dreaded in one place is to be cul- 
tivated in another : here a poison, there an 
antidote. 



[ 35 ] 

The above is what I thought in reference to 
Puritanism during my walk this evening : then 
by a not uneasy diversion of mind, I turned to 
another branch of small persecutions — small do 
I call them ? perhaps they are the greatest that 
are endured, certainly the most vexatious. I 
mean all that is perpetrated by the tyranny of 
the weak. 

This is a most fertile subject, and has been 
nearly neglected. Weak is a relative term: 
whenever two people meet, one is comparatively 
weak and the other strong; the relation between 
them is often supposed to imply this. Taking 
society in general, there is a certain weakness of 
the kind I mean, attributable to the sick, the 
spoilt, the ill-tempered, the unfortunate, the 
aged, women, and the clergy. ISTow I venture to 
say, there is no observant man of the world who 
has lived to the age of thirty, who has not seen 
numerous instances of severe tyranny exercised 
by persons belonging to one or other of these 
classes ; and which tyranny has been established, 
continued, and endured, solely by reason of the 
weakness, real or supposed, of the persons exercis- 
ing it. Talking once with a thoughtful man on this 
subject, he remarked to me, that of course the 
generous suffered much from the tyranny I was 



[ 36 ] 

speaking of, as the strength of it was drawn 
from their strength. It might be compared to 
an evil government of a rich people, in which 
their riches furnished forth abundant armies 
wherewith to oppress the subject. 

In quiet times this tyranny is very great. I 
have often thought whether it was not one very 
considerable compensation for rude hard times, 
or times of dire alarm, that domestic tyranny 
was then probably less severe : and among the 
various forms of domestic tyranny none occupies 
a more distinguished place than this of the 
tyranny of the weak over the strong. 

If you come to analyze it, it is a tyranny 
exercised by playing upon the good-nature, the 
fear of responsibility, the dread of acting sel- 
fishly, the horror of giving pain, prevalent among 
good and kind people. They often know that 
it is a tremendous tyranny they are suffering 
under, and they do not feel it the less because 
they are consenting parties. 

Meditating sometimes upon the results of this 
tyranny, I have thought to myself, what is to 
stop it 1 in a state of further developed Chris- 
tianity, unless, indeed, it were equally developed 
in all minds, there may be only more room for 
this tyranny. And then this strange, but per- 



[ 37 ] 

haps just, idea came into my mind, that this 
tyranny would fall away in a state of clearer 
knowledge such as might accompany another 
state of being ; for then, the secrets of men's 
hearts not being profoundly concealed by silence, 
or by speech, it would be seen what the sufferers 
thought of these tyrannous proceedings; and 
the tyrants would shrink back, abashed at the 
enormity of their requisitions, made visible in 
the clear mirror of another's mind. 

A common form of this tyranny is where the 
tyrant uses a name of great potency such as that 
of some relationship, and having performed few 
or none of the duties, exacts from the other side 
a most oppressive tribute — oppressive, even if 
the duties had been performed. 

There is one reason for putting a limit to the 
subserviency of the strong to the weak, which 
reason, if fully developed, might do more at 
times to protect the strong from the weak than 
anything I know. Surely the most foolish strong 
person must occasionally have glimpses that he 
or she cannot sacrifice himself or herself alone : 
that, in dealing with another person, you are 
in some measure representing the outer world; 
and ought (to use an official phrase) to govern 
yourself accordingly. We see this in managing 



[ 38 ] 

children : and the most weakly indulgent people' 
find that they must make a stop somewhere, 
with some perception, it is to be hoped, that the 
world will not go on dealing with the children 
as they (the indulgent persons) are doing; and, 
therefore, that they are preparing mischief and 
discomfort on one side or the other for parties 
who are necessarily to be brought in contact. 

The soft mud carried away by the encroaching 
sea cannot say — 6 1, the soft mud, am to be the 
only victim to this element; and, after I am 
gone, it will no more encroach.' No, it means 
to devour the whole land if it can. 

Ah, thought I to myself, how important are 
such considerations as those T have had to-day, 
if we could but rightly direct them ; how much 
of the health and wealth of the world depend 
upon them ! Even in those periods when ' laws 
or kings' could do predominant good or predo- 
minant ill, the miseries of private life perhaps 
outweighed the rest; but now, as civilization 
advances, the tendency is to some little ameliora- 
tion of great political dangers ; while, at the same 
time, from more refinement, more intricacy of 
affairs, more nervous development, more pre- 
tence of goodness, more resolve to have every- 



[ 39 ] 

thing quite neat and smooth and safe, the miseries 
which the generality of men make for themselves 
do not tend to decrease unless kept down by a 
continual growth of wise and good thoughts, and 
just habits of mind. 
When we talk of 

' The ills that laws or kings can cause or cure/ 

our thoughts refer only to the functions of direct 
and open government ; but the laws which re- 
gulate the intercourse of society, public opinion, 
and in short that almost impalpable code of 
thought and action which grows up in a very 
easy fashion between man and man and is clothed 
with none of the ordinary dress of power, 
may yet be the subtlest and often the sternest 
despotism. 

It is a strange fancy of mine, but I cannot 
help wishing we could move for returns, as their 
phrase is in Parliament, for the suffering caused 
in any one day, or other period of time, through- 
out the world, to be arranged under certain 
heads ; and we should then see what the world 
has occasion to fear most. What a large 
amount would come under the heads of unrea- 
sonable fear of others, of miserable quarrels 
amongst relations upon infinitesimally small sub- 



[ 40 ] 

jects, of imaginary slights, of undue cares, of 
false shames, of absolute misunderstandings, of 
unnecessary pains to maintain credit or reputa- 
tion, of vexation that we cannot make others of 
the same mind with ourselves. What a won- 
derful thing it would be to see set down in 
figures, as it were, how ingenious we are in 
plaguing one another. My own private opinion 
is, that the discomfort caused by injudicious 
dress worn entirely in deference, as it has before 
been remarked, to the most foolish of mankind, 
in fact to the tyrannous majority, would out- 
weigh many an evil that sounds very big. 

Tested by these perfect returns, which I 
imagine might be made by the angelic world, if 
they regard human affairs, perhaps our every-day 
shaving, severe shirt-collars and other ridiculous 
garments, are equivalent to a great European war 
once in seven years; and we should find that 
women's stays did about as much harm, i. e. 
caused as much suffering, as an occasional pesti- 
lence — say, for instance, the cholera. We should 
find perhaps that the vexations arising from the 
income-tax were nearly equal to those caused 
amongst the same class of sufferers by the ill- 
natured things men fancy have been said behind 
their backs : and perhaps the whole burden and 



[ 41 ] 

vexation resulting from the aggregate of the 
respective national debts of that unthrifty family, 
the European race, the whole burden and vexa- 
tion, I say, do not come up to the aggregate of 
annoyances inflicted in each locality by the one 
ill-natured person who generally infests each 
little village, parish, house, or community. 

There is no knowing what strange comparisons 
and discoveries I should in my fancy have been 
led to — perhaps that the love, said to be inherent 
in the softer sex, of having the last word, causes 
as much mischief as all the tornadoes of the 
Tropics; or that the vexation inflicted by ser- 
vants on their masters by assuring them that 
such and such duties do not belong to their 
place, is equivalent to all the sufferings that have 
been caused by mad dogs since the world began. 
But my meditations were suddenly interrupted 
and put to flight by a noise, which, in describing 
afterwards in somewhat high-flown terms, I said 
caused a dismay like that which would have been 
felt if, neglectful of the proper periods in his- 
tory, the Huns, the Vandals and the Yisigoths, 
in fact the unruly population of the world, had 
combined together and rushed down upon some 
quiet, orderly cathedral town. 

In short, the children of my neighbours re- 



[ 42 ] 

turning from school had dashed into my field, 
their main desire being to behold an arranged 
heap of stones and brick-bats which, after being 
diligently informed of the fact several times by 
my son Leonard, I had learnt was a house he 
had lately built. 

There is a sort of freemasonry among chil- 
dren j for these knew at once that this heap of 
stones was a house, and danced round it with 
delight as a great work of art. Now, do you 
suppose, to come back to the original subject of 
my meditations to-day, that the grown-up child 
does not want amusement, when you see how 
greedy children are of it? Do not imagine we 
grow out of that; we disguise ourselves by 
various solemnities ; but we have none of us lost 
the child-nature yet. 

I was glad to see how merry the children 
could be though looking so blue and cold, and 
still more pleased to find that my presence did 
not scare them away, and that they have no 
grown-up feeling as yet about trespassing: I 
fled, however, from the noise into more quiet 
quarters, and broke up the train of reflections 
of which I now give these outlines, hoping they 
may be of use to some one. 



CHAPTER IV. 

MUCH retrospect is not a very safe or a 
very wise thing : still there are times 
when a man may do well to look back upon his 
past life, and endeavour to take a comprehensive 
view of it. And whether such retrospect is 
wise or not, it cannot be avoided, as our reveries 
must sometimes turn upon that one life, our 
own, respecting which we have a great number 
of facts very interesting to us and thoroughly 
within our ken. The process is curiously dif- 
ferent from that pursued by Alnaschar in the 
Arabian Nights, who with an imaginary spurn, 
alas, too well interpreted by a real gesture, dis- 
posed at once of all his splendid fortunes gained 
in reverie. In this progress of retrospection 
many find that the spurn is real as well as the 
fatal gesture which realized it, only both ha"ve 
been administered by the rude world instead of 
by themselves; the fragments of their broken 
pottery lie around them; and, going back to 



[ 44 ] 

fond memories of the past, they have to recon- 
struct the original reverie — the dream of their 
youth — the proud purpose of their manhood — 
how fulfilled! 

Walking up and down amidst the young fir- 
trees in the little plantation to the north-east 
of the garden, and, occasionally, with all the in- 
terest of a young planter, stopping in front of a 
particular tree, and inspecting this year's growth, 
I got into such a train of retrospect as I have 
just spoken of; and from that, by a process 
which will be visible to the reader, was soon led 
into thoughts about the future. 

I pictured to myself a descendant of mine, a 
man of dilapidated fortune, but still owning this 
house and garden. The few adjoining fields he 
will long ago have parted with. But he loves 
the place, having been brought up here by his 
sad, gentle mother, and having lived here with his 
young sister, then a rapturous imaginative girl, 
his companion and delight. Through the small- 
ness of their fortune, and consequently the nar- 
row circle of their acquaintances, she will have 
married a man totally unfit for her ) the romance 
of her nature has turned somewhat sour; and, 
though occasionally high-minded, she is very 
peevish now, and is no longer the companion 



[ 45 ] 

that she was to her brother. He just remem- 
bers his father pacing with disturbed step under 
these trees which I am now walking about. He 
recollects before his father's death, how eagerly 
the fond wife used to waylay and open large 
packets, which she would not always bring to 
the dying man's bed. He now knows them to 
have been law papers : and when he thinks of 
these things, he utters harsh words about the 
iniquity of the law in England; and says some- 
thing about law growing in upon a falling estate 
like fungus upon old and failing wood. 

These things are now long past : they occurred 
in his childhood. His mother is dead and lies 
in that quiet church-yard in the wood, where, if 
I mistake not, one of his ancestors will also have 
found a peaceful resting-place. The house has 
fully partaken of the falling fortunes of its suc- 
cessive owners. The furniture is too old and 
worn for any new comer to be tempted to 
occupy the house ; and the little garden is let to 
a market-gardener. Strawberries will grow then 
on the turf where I am now walking, and which 
John, after mowing it twice in the week, and 
having spent all his time in its vicinity, from 
working-day morning till working-day night, 
comes to look at on a Sunday, and with his hands 



[ 46 ] 

in his pockets and himself arrayed in a waist- 
coat too bright almost to behold, surveys in- 
tently, as if it were one of the greatest products 
of human invention. And John need not be 
ashamed of this single minded delight in his 
work, for, though it is nothing remarkable in 
England, the whole continent of Europe does not 
probably afford such a well-shaven bit of grass : 
and, as for our love of gardens, it is the last 
refuge of art in the minds and souls of many 
Englishmen : if we did not care for gardens, I 
hardly know what in the way of beauty we should 
care for. Well, this has all ceased by that time 
to be pleasure- garden, and I fear to think of the 
profane cabbages which will then occupy this 
trim velvety little spot. I hope that poor John 
from some distant place will not behold the pro- 
fanation. 

I have lingered on these details ; but I must 
now bring my distant descendant nearer to us. 
He will live in some large town getting his 
bread in a humble way, and will sometimes steal 
down here, pretending to want to know whether 
any body has applied to take the tumbledown 
place. That is what he says to his wife, (for of 
course being so poor this foolish Milverton has 



[ 47 ] 

married,) but she understands him better than to 
be deceived by that. 

He has just made one of these excursions, 
having, for economy's sake and a wish to avoid 
the neighbours, got out at a station ten miles 
off (our cathedral town) and walked over to his 
house. It is evening, and he has just arrived. 
Tired as he is, he takes a turn round the gar- 
den, and after a long-drawn sigh, which I know 
well the words for, he enters the house. The 
market-gardener lives in it, and his wife takes 
care of the master's rooms. She has lighted a 
fire : the smoke hardly ascends, but still there is 
warmth enough to call out much of the latent 
dampness of the apartment. The things about 
him are somewhat cheerless certainly, but he 
would not wish them to be otherwise. They 
would be very inharmonious if they were. Dur- 
ing his meagre supper, he is entertained with 
an account of the repairs that must be looked to. 
The water comes in here, and part of the wall 
has fallen down there; and farmer Smith says 
(the coarse woman need not have repeated the 
very words) that if Mr. Milverton is too poor to 
mend his own fence, he, farmer Smith, must do 
it himself. Patiently the poor man appears to 



[ 48 ] 

attend to all this, but is thinking all the while 
of his pale mother, and of his wondering, as a 
child, why she never used to look up when horse 
or man went by, as she sat working at that bay 
window, and getting his clothes ready for school. 
At last the market-gardeners wife, little at- 
tended to, bounces out of the room; and her 
abrupt departure rouses my distant descendant 
to think of ways and means. And here I can- 
not help, as if I were present at the reverie, 
breaking in and saying, ' Do not cut down that 
yew tree in the back garden, the stately well- 
grown one which was an ancient tree in my 
time.' But no, upon second thoughts, I will say 
nothing of the kind. ' Cut it down, cut them 
all down, dear distant descendant, rather than 
let little tradesmen want their money, or do the 
least dishonourable thing.' , 

Apparently, the present question of ways and 
means is settled somehow, for he rises and paces 
about the room. In a corner there lies an aged 
Parliamentary report, a remnant from my old 
library, the bulk of which has long been sold. 
It is the report of a Select Committee upon the 
effect on prices of the influx of Californian gold. 
There are some side notes which he takes to have 



[ 49 ] 

been mine; and this makes him think of me — 
not very kindly. These are his thoughts — This 
ancestor of mine. I see he busied himself about 
many worldly things; it is not likely that, 
taking an interest in such affairs, he would not 
have cared to have some hand in managing 
them; I conjecture that indeed, if only from 
one saying of his, that the bustle of life, if 
good for little else, at least keeps some sadness 
down at the bottom of the heart; and yet I do 
not find that our estate prospered much under 
him. He might now, if he had been a prosperous 
gentleman, have bought some part of Woodcot 
chase (which was sold in his time and is now all 
building ground), and I should not have been in 
this cursed plight. 

' Distant descendant, do not let misfortune 
make you, as it so often does make men, un- 
generous.' 

He feels this and resumes. I wonder why he 
did not become rich and great. I suspect he 
was very laborious. ('You do me full justice 
there.') I suppose he was very versatile, and 
did not keep to one thing at a time. (' You do 
me injustice there; for I was always aware how 
much men must limit their efforts to effect any- 
thing.') In his books he sometimes makes 

E 



[ 50 ] 

shrewd worldly remarks which show he under- 
stood something of the world, and he ought to 
have mastered it. 

'Now, my dear young relative, allow me to 
say that last remark of yours upon character is 
a very weak one. Admitting, for the sake of 
argument, that what you urge in my favour be 
true, you must know that the people who write 
shrewdly are often the most easy to impose 
upon, or have been so. I almost suspect, with- 
out, however, having looked into the matter, 
that Rochefoucault was a tender lover, a warm 
friend, and, in general, a dupe (happy for him) 
to all the impulses and affections which he would 
have us imagine he saw through and had mas- 
tered. The simple write shrewdly : but do not 
describe what they do. And the hard and 
worldly would be too wise in their generation 
to write about what they practise, even if they 
perceived it, which they seldom do, lacking deli- 
cacy of imagination.' 

Perhaps (he continues) this ancestor of mine 
had no ambition, and did not care about any- 
thing but that unwholesome scribbling (' un- 
gracious again, distant descendant !') which has 
brought us in but little produce of any kind. 



[ 5i ] 

Dear distant kinsman, now it is my turn to 
speak ; now listen to me \ and I will show you 
the family failing, not a very uncommon one, 
which has reduced us by degrees to this sad 
state; for we, your ancestors, look on and suffer 
with you. 

I am afraid we must own that we were of 
that foolish class of men who never can say a 
hearty good word for themselves. You might 
put a Milverton in the most favourable position 
in the world, you might have made him a bishop 
in George the Second's time, or a minister to a 
Spanish king in the 17 th century, and still he 
would have contrived to shuffle awkwardly out 
of wealth and dignities. When the right time 
came for self-assertion and for saying a stout 
word for his own cause, or for that of his kith 
and kin. 

'Yox faucibus haesit;' the poor, simple fellow 
was almost inaudible; and, muttering some- 
thing, was supposed to say just that which he 
did not. I foresaw, therefore, that unless some 
Milverton were by good fortune to marry into a 
sturdy, pushing family (which would be better 
for him than any amount of present fortune) it 



[ 52 ] 

was all over with the race, as far as worldly 
prosperity is concerned. And so it seems to be. 
If yon feel that yon are free from this defect, I 
will insure yon fortnne. Talk of cutting down 
the yew-tree; not a stick of the plantation need 
he tonched, and I already see deep belts of new 
wood rise round newly-gained acres. Only be 
sure that you really can stand up stoutly for 
yourself. 

I see what you are thinking of — that passage 
in Bacon (and it pleases me to find that you are 
so far well-read, though you have sold the books) 
where he says that there are occasions when a 
man needs a friend to do or say for him what he 
never can do or say so well, or even at all, for 
himself. True: but, my simple-minded rela- 
tive, have you lived to the age of twenty-seven, 
and not discovered that Phoenixes and Friends 
are creatures of the least prolific nature 1 Not 
that, adopting your misanthropic mood, I would 
say that there are no such creatures as friends, 
and that they are not potent for good. A man's 
friend, however, is ill, or travelling, or power- 
less ; but good self-assurance is always within call. 

You are mute : you feel then that you are 
guilty too. Be comforted ; perhaps there is 
some island of the blest where there will be no 



[ 53 ] 

occasion for pushing. Once this happened to 
me, that a great fierce obdurate crowd were 
pushing up in long line towards a door which 
was to lead them to some good thing; and I, 
not liking the crowd, stole out of it, having 
made up my mind to be last, and was leaning 
indolently against a closed-up side door : when, 
all of a sudden, this door opened, and I was the 
first to walk in, and saw arrive long after me 
the men who had been thrusting and struggling 
round me. This does not often happen in the 
world, but I think there was a meaning in it. 

But now no more about me. We have to 
think what is to be done in your case. 

You labour under a retiring disposition, you 
are married, and you wish to retrieve the family 
fortunes. This is a full and frank statement of 
your case, and there is no doubt that it is a very 
bad one, requiring wise and energetic remedies. 
First, you must at once abandon all those pur- 
suits which depend for success upon refined ap- 
preciation. You must seek to do something 
which many people demand. I cannot illustrate 
what I mean better than by telling you what I 
often tell my publisher, whenever he speaks of 
the slackness of trade. There is a confectioners 
shop next door, which is thronged with people : 



[ 54 ] 

I beg him (the publisher) to draw a moral from 
this, and to set up, himself, an eating house. 
That would be appealing to the million in the 
right way. I tell him he could hire me and 
others of his c eminent hands' to cook instead of 
to write, and then, instead of living on our wits, 
(slender diet indeed!) we ourselves should be 
able to buy books, and should become great pa- 
trons of literature. I did not tell him, because 
it is not wise to run down authors in the pre- 
sence of publishers, what I may mention to you, 
that many of us would be much more wisely 
and wholesomely employed in cooking than in 
writing. But this is nothing to you. What I 
want you, dear distant kinsman, to perceive, is, 
that you must at once cultivate something which 
is in general demand. Emigrate, if you like, 
and cultivate the ground. Cattle are always in 
some demand, if only for tallow. It is better 
to provide the fuel for the lamp than those pro- 
ductions which are said to smell most of it. I 
cannot enter into details with you; because I 
do not foresee what will be the flourishing trades 
in your time. I can only give you general 
advice. 

One of the great aids, or hindrances, to suc- 
cess in anything lies in the temperament of a 



[ 55 ] 

man. I do not know yours; but I venture to 
point out to you what is the best temperament, 
namely, a combination of the desponding and 
the resolute, or, as I had better express it, of 
the apprehensive and the resolute. Such is the 
temperament of great commanders. Secretly, 
they rely upon nothing and upon nobody. There 
is such a powerful element of failure in all 
human affairs, that a shrewd man is always say- 
ing to himself, what shall I do, if that which I 
count upon, does not come out as I expect. This 
foresight dwarfs and crushes all but men of great 
resolution. 

Then be not over-choice in looking out for what 
may exactly suit you; but rather be ready to 
adopt any opportunities that occur. Fortune does 
not stoop often to take any one up. Favourable 
opportunities will not happen precisely in the 
way that you have imagined. Nothing does. 
Do not be discouraged, therefore, by a present 
detriment in any course which may lead to some- 
thing good. Time is so precious here. 

Get, if you can, into one or other of the main 
grooves of human affairs. It is all the difference 
of going by railway, and walking over a ploughed 
field, whether you adopt common courses, or set 
up one for yourself. You will see, if your times 



[ 56 ] 

are anything like ours, very inferior persons 
highly placed in the army, in the church, in 
office, at the bar. They have somehow got upon 
the line, and have moved on well with very little 
original motive power of their own. Do not let 
this make you talk as if merit were utterly 
neglected in these or any professions : only that 
getting well into the groove will frequently do 
instead of any great excellence. 

My sarcastic friend, Ellesmere, whom you will 
probably know by repute, as a great Chief- Justice, 
or Lord-Chancellor, says, with the utmost gravity, 
that no man with less than a thousand pounds 
a year (I wonder whether in your times you will 
think that a large or a small income) can afford 
to have private opinions upon certain important 
subjects. He admits that he has known it done 
upon eight hundred a year; but only by very 
prudent people with small families. 

But the night is coming on, and I feel, my 
dear descendant, as if I should like to say some- 
thing more solemn to you than these worldly 
maxims. 

Whatever happens, do not be dissatisfied with 
your worldly fortunes, lest that speech be just]y 
made to you, which was once made to a repining 



[ 57 ] 

person much given to talk of how great she and 
hers had been. ' Yes, Madam/ was the crushing 
reply, c we all find our level at last.' 

Eternally that fable is true, of a choice being 
given to men on their entrance into life. Two 
majestic women stand before you : one in rich 
vesture, superb, with what seems like a mural 
crown on her head and plenty in her hand, and 
something of triumph, I will not say of boldness, 
in her eye ; and she, the queen of this world, can 
give you many things. The other is beautiful, 
but not alluring, nor rich, nor powerful; and 
there are traces of care and shame and sorrow in 
her face ; and (marvellous to say) her look is 
downcast and yet noble. She can give you no- 
thing, but she can make you somebody. If you 
cannot bear to part from her sweet sublime 
countenance which hardly veils with sorrow its 
infinity, follow her : follow her I say, if you are 
really minded so to do; but do not, while you 
are on this track, look back with ill-concealed 
envy on the glittering things which fall in the 
path of those who prefer to follow the rich dame, 
and to pick up the riches and honours which fall 
from her cornucopia. 

This is in substance what a true artist said to 
me only the other day, impatient, as he told me, 



[ 58 ] 

of the complaints of those who would pursue 
art, and yet would have fortune. 

But, indeed, all moral writings teem with this 
remark in one form or other. You cannot have 
inconsistent advantages. Do not shun this maxim 
because it is common-place. On the contrary, 
take the closest heed of what observant men, 
who would probably like to show originality, 
are yet constrained to repeat. Therein lies the 
marrow of the wisdom of the world. Such 
things are wiser than proverbs, which are seldom 
true except for the occasion on which they are 
used, and are generally good to strengthen a 
resolve rather than to enlighten it. 

These latter words of mine fall upon an in- 
attentive ear; for my distant descendant, who 
has been gradually becoming more composed 
during the progress of this moral essay, at last 
falls quite asleep. Perhaps the great triumph 
of all moral writings, including sermons, is that 
at least they have produced some sweet and in- 
nocent sleep. 

Poor fellow! I now see how care-worn he 
seems, though not without some good looks, 
which he owes to his great great great grand- 
mother, of whom, as he lies there, he puts me 
much in mind. He ought to thank me for those 



[ 59 ] 

good looks and to admit that winning some 
beauty for the family is at least as valuable as 
that Woodcot chase which he thinks I ought to 
have laid hold of. But our unfair descendants 
never think of anything in our favour: this 
gout and that asthma and those mortgages are 
all remembered against us; we hear but little 
on the other side. 

Sleep on, dear distant progeny of mine, and 
I will keep the night watches of your anxious 
thought. 



CHAPTER V. 

THESE companions of my solitude, my reve- 
ries, take many forms. Sometimes, the ne- 
bulous stuff out of which they are formed, comes 
together with some method and set purpose, and 
may be compared to a heavy cloud — then they 
will do for an essay or moral discourse ; at other 
times, they are merely like those sportive dis- 
connected forms of vapour, which are streaked 
across the heavens, now like a feather, now like 
the outline of a camel, doubtless obeying some 
law and with some design, but such as mocks 
our observation; at other times again, they 
arrange themselves like those fleckered clouds 
where all the heavens are regularly broken up 
in small divisions lying evenly over each other 
with light between each. The result of this 
last-mentioned state of reverie is well brought 
out in conversation : and so I am going to give 
the reader an account of some talk which I had 
lately with my friend Ellesmere. 



[ 6i ] 

Once or twice before, I Have used this name 
Ellesmere as if it were familiar to others as to 
myself. It is to be found in a book edited, as it 
appears, by a neighbouring clergyman, named 
Dunsford, who was obliging and laborious enough 
to set down some conversations in which he, 
Ellesmere and myself took part; and which he 
called Friends in Council. There is no occasion 
to refer to this book to understand Ellesmere : 
a man soon shows himself by his talk, if he 
does by anything. Moreover the average reader 
will find the book a somewhat sober, not to 
say dull, affair, embracing such questions as 
slavery, government, management of the poor, 
and such like. The reader, however, who is 
not the average reader, may perhaps find some- 
thing worth agreeing with, or differing from, in 
the book. . 

I flatter myself that last sentence is very 
skilful. The poor publisher, or rather his head 
man, complains sadly that not even the usual 
amount of advertisement, not to speak of puf- 
fing, is allowed to him, the good clergyman 
having a peculiar aversion to such modes of 
dealing, and believing that good books, if there 
were such things, should be sought after, and 
not poked in the faces of purchasers like Jews' 



[ 62 ] 

penknives at coach doors. By this delicate 
piece of flattery, for each reader will secretly 
conclude that he is above the average and hasten 
to buy the book, I shall have done more than 
many puffs direct. Therefore be at ease, man 
of business, the avenues to thy shop will be 
thronged. I can utter this prophecy with the 
more confidence as the shop in question is in 
the high road to the Great Exhibition. 

Well, my friend Ellesmere was with me for 
a day; we were lounging about the garden; the 
great black dog which I always let loose when 
Ellesmere is here, to please him, was slowly 
following us to and fro, hanging out his large 
tongue, and wishing we would sit down, but 
still not being able to resist following us about ; 
when Ellesmere suddenly interrupted something 
I was saying with these words, ' The question 
between us almost comes to this : you want a 
sheep-dog. I am satisfied with a watch-dog — 
Hollo will do for me ; and, as you see, he is con- 
tent with my approbation.' 

This abrupt speech requires some explanation. 
I had been talking about some matters con- 
nected with statesmanship, and stricturing, 
perhaps too severely, some recent acts of govern- 
ment, in which, as I said, I detected some of the 



C fa 1 

worst habits of modern policy — a mixture of 
rashness and indecision — meddling and doing 
nothing — spending, as I added, most of the pow- 
der for the flash in the pan. Then I went on 
to deplore, that always statesmanship appeared 
to come upon the stage too late. Is nothing 
ever to be done in time 1 ?* 

A good deal of what I said is true, I think, 
but ought to be taken ' cum grano,' as they say ; 
for men who have lived a good deal in active 
life, and are withdrawn from it, are apt to com- 
ment too severely on the conduct of those who 
are left behind. They forget the difficulty of 
getting anything done in this perplexed world, 
and their own former difficulties in that way 
are softened by distance. It was well that Elles- 
mere interrupted me. The conversation thus 
proceeded. 

Milverton. Yes, that is the point. I confess 
I should like something of the sheep-dog in a 
ruler. I think we, of all nations, can bear judi- 
cious interference and regulation; we should not 
be cramped by it. 

Ellesmere. In a representative government is 
the folly of the governed to find no place ? 

* Written in 1850. 



[ 64 ] 

Milverton. Yes, but, my good friend, yon 
need not be anxious to provide for that. Folly 
will find a place even at the side of princes. 
That was the thing symbolized by great men's 
jesters. But, putting sarcasm aside, Ellesmere, 
I don't mean to blame present men so much as 
present doctrines and systems. Some of the 
men in power, or likely to be, in this country, 
are very honest capable brave men, full of desire 
to do good. But they have too little power, or 
rather they meet with too much obstruction. 
Now, it is not wise to swathe a creature up like 
a foreign baby, and then say, Exert yourself, 
govern us, let there be no delay. 

Ellesmere. The amount of obstruction is over- 
estimated. If a ruling man wanted to do any- 
thing good, I think he could do it, though I do 
admit that there are large powers of obstruction 
to be encountered. 

Milverton. I do believe you are right. A 
statesman might venture to be greater and bolder 
than his position or apparent power quite war- 
rants. And if he were to fall, he would fall — 
and there an end. 

Ellesmere. And no such great damage either. 

Milverton, But to return to your watch-dog 



[ 65 ] 

and sheep-dog. There are two things very dif- 
ferent demanded from statesmen : one, carrying 
on the routine of office; the other, originating 
measures, setting the limits within which pri- 
vate exertion should act. You do not mean to 
contend, Ellesmere, that it would not have been 
wise for a government to have interfered with 
railway legislation earlier and more efficiently 
than it did. 

Ellesmere. No — few people know better than 
I do the immense loss of time, money, labour, 
temper and happiness which might have been 
saved in that matter. 

Milverton. Now look again on Sanitary mea- 
sures. Consider the years it has taken; and, for 
aught I know, may yet take, to get a Smoke 
Prohibition Bill passed. If such a thing is wise 
and possible, let us have it; if not, tell us it 
cannot be done. I have taken instances in 
physical things just as they occurred to me: I 
might have alluded to higher matters which are 
left in the same way, to see what will happen, 
to wait for the breezes, perhaps the storms, of 
popular agitation. 

Ullesmere. People in authority are as fearful 
of attacking any social evil as men are of cutting 

F 



[ 66 ] 

down old trees about their houses. There is 
always something, however, to be said for the 
old trees. 

Milverton. It would mostly be better, though, 
to cut them down at once, and begin to plant 
something at the proper distance from their 
houses. 

Ellesmere. Well, Milverton, there is one thing 
you must remember, and that is, that intelligent 
men writing or talking about government are 
apt to fancy themselves, or such men as them- 
selves, in power; and so are inclined to be very 
liberal in assigning the limits of that power. 
Let them fancy some of the foolish people they 
know in this imaginary position of great power ; 
and then see how the intelligent men begin to 
shudder at the thought of this power, and to 
desire very secure limits for it, and very narrow 
space for its exercise. 

Milverton. Intelligent public opinion will in 
these days prevent vigorous action in a minister 
from hardening into despotism. 

Ellesmere. Please repeat that again, my friend. 
' Intelligent public opinion"? Were those the 
words: did I catch them rightly? 

Milverton. You did. There is such a thing, 
Ellesmere. It is not the first opinion heard in 



[ 6 7 ] 

the country; it is not always loud on the hust- 
ings; but surely there are a great number of 
persons in a country like this, who try to think 
and eventually form intelligent public opinion. 

Ellesmere. I am afraid they are not a very 
active body. 

Milverton. Not the most active; but they 
come in at some time. 

Ellesmere. I do not wish to be impertinent, 
but do any of these people who ultimately (ul- 
timately, I like that word) form intelligent 
public opinion, live in the country? I can ima- 
gine a retired wisdom in some Court in London, 
say Pump Court for instance, but I cannot fancy 
the blowsy wisdom of the country. 

Milverton. Now, Ellesmere, do not be pro- 
voking. 

Ellesmere. I am all gravity again: but just 
allow me to propound one little theory, namely, 
that it is when the retired wisdom of town is 
revivified by country air (on a visit) it is apt to 
develope itself into — w^hat is it — oh — 'intelli- 
gent public opinion.' 

Milverton. Now, as you have had your joke, 
I will proceed. I have a theory that the tem- 
perament and habits of mind of individual 
statesmen have a good deal to do with govern- 



[ 68 ] 

ment. I do not yet believe that we are all com- 
pounded into some great machine of which you 
can exactly calculate the results. 

UUesmere. What is your pet temperament for 
a statesman? 

Milverton. That is a large question: one 
thing I should be inclined to say, with respect 
to his habit of mind — he should doubt till the 
last, and then act like a man who has never 
doubted. 

UUesmere. Cleverly put, but untrue, after the 
fashion of you maxim-mongers. He should not 
act like a man who has never doubted, but like 
a man who was in the habit of doubting till he 
had received sufficient information. He should 
. not convey to you the idea of a man who was 
given to doubt, or not to doubt; but of one 
who could wait till he had enquired. 

Milverton. Your criticism is just. Well, then, 
another thing which occurs to me respecting his 
habits of mind is, that he should be one of those 
people who are not given to any system, and 
yet who have an exceeding love of improvement 
and disposition to regulate. 

UUesmere. That is good. I distrust systems. 
I find that men talk of principles; and mean, 



[ 69 ] 

when you come to enquire, rules connected with 
certain systems. 

Milverton. This enables me to bring my no- 
tions of government interference to a point. It 
should be a principle in a statesman's mind that 
he should not interfere so as to deaden private 
action : at the same time he should be pro- 
foundly anxious that right and good should be 
done, and consequently not fear to undertake 
responsibility. He should not be entrapped, 
mentally, into any system of policy which held 
him to interfere here, or not to interfere there ; 
but he should be inclined to look at each case on 
its own merits. This is very hard work. Systems 
save trouble — the trouble of thinking. 

Ellesmere. There is some sense in what you 
say. If we talk no more about statesmanship, 
and to tell the truth I am rather tired of the 
subject, our dialogue will end like the dialogues 
in a book, where, after much sham stage-fighting, 
the author's opinion is always made to prevail. 
By the way, I dare say you think that the 
nursery for Statesmen is Literature; and that 
in these days of Railways, a short line from 
Grub to Downing-street (a single set of rails, as 
no one will want to return) is imperatively 
needed. 



[ 7° 1 

Milverton. No, T do not. I think that good 
Literature, like any other good work, gives notice 
of material out of which a statesman might choose. 
To make a good book, my dear friend, is a very 
hard thing, I suspect. I do not mean a work 
of genius. Of course such are very rare. But 
to give an account of any transaction; to put 
forward any connected views ; in short to do 
any mere literary work well ; it requires many 
of the things which tend to make a good man of 
business — industry, for instance, method, clear- 
ness, resolve, power of adaptation. 

Ellesmere. Yes, no doubt : foreign nations seem 
to have profited so much from calling literary 
men to their aid, that — 

Milverton. That is an unjust sneer, Ellesmere. 
Some of the writings of the men to whom I know 
you allude, do not fulfil the condition of being 
good books ; are full of false antitheses, illogical 
conclusions, vapid assertions, and words arraaged 
according to prettiness, not to meaning. Such 
books are beacons ; they tell all men, the people 
who wrote us are sprightly fellows, but cannot 
be trusted, they love sound more than sense, pray 
do not trust them with any function requiring 
sense rather than sound. 

But you are not to conclude because some men 



[ 7* ] 

make use of Literature, perhaps the only way 
open to them of carrying their views into action, 
that they could not act themselves. Napoleon 
was always writing early in life ; Csesar indited 
books, even a grammar ; a whole host of captains 
and statesmen in the 16th century were writers. 
Follow Cervantes, Mendoza, Sidney, Camoens, 
Descartes, Paul Louis Courier, to the field, and 
come back with them, if you ever do come back 
alive, you individual clothed with horsehair and 
audacity; and then follow them to their studies 
and see whether they cannot give a good account 
of themselves in both departments. 

Ellesmere. Pistol is come back again on earth, 
or Bombastes Furioso, neither of whose charac- 
ters fits well upon you. But, my friend, we are 
wont in law to look to the point at issue ; we 
were talking of statesmen, not of soldiers. 

Milverton. Machiavelli — 

Ellesmere. That worthy man ! 

Milverton. Caesar again ! Lorenzo de' Medici, 
James the First of Scotland, Milton, Bacon, 
Grotius, Shaftesbury, Somers, St. John, Temple, 
Burke. And were I to rack my brains, or my 
books, I could no doubt make an ample list. 

Ellesmere. Good, bad, and indifferent: here 
they come, altogether. 



[ 7* ] 

Milverton. And have there been no bad 
statesmen amongst those who had no tincture 
of letters ? 

Ellesmere. One or two, certainly. 

Milverton. You know, Ellesmere, I have never 
talked loudly of the claims of literary men, and 
have always maintained that for them, especially 
when they are of real merit, to complain of 
neglect, is for the most part absurd. A great 
writer, as I think Mr. Carlyle has well said, 
creates a want for himself — a most artificial 
one. Nobody wanted him before he appeared. 
He has to show them what they want him 
for. You might as well talk of Leverrier's 
planet having been neglected in George the 
Second's time. It had not been discovered : 
that is all. 

There may be misunderstandings as to the 
nature of literary merit, as indeed of all merit, 
which may prevent worldly men from making 
due use of it in worldly affairs. For instance, I 
should say that diplomatic services are services 
peculiarly fit to be performed by literary men. 
They are likely to be more of cosmopolites than 
other men are. Their various accomplishments 
serve them as means of attaching others in 
strange countries. Their observations are likely 



[ 73 ] 

to be good. One can easily see that a great deal 
of their habitual work would come into play in 
such employments. And there is an appearance 
of hardship in not giving, at least occasionally, 
to men who are particularly shut out from most 
worldly advantages, those offices which they pro- 
mise to be most fitted for. 

Ellesmere. It would improve many a literary 
man greatly to have, or to have had, some real 
business. 

Milverton. No doubt. Indeed, I have always 
thought it is a melancholy thing to see how shut 
up, or rather I should say, how twisted and de- 
formed a man becomes by surrendering himself 
to any one art, science, calling, or culture. You 
see a person become a lawyer, a physician, a 
clergyman, an author, or an artist ; and cease to 
be a man, a wholesome man, fairly developed in 
all ways. Each man's art or function, however 
serviceable, should be attached to him no more 
than to a soldier his sword, which the accom- 
plished military man can lay aside, and not even 
remind you that he has ever worn such a thing. 

Ellesmere. An idea strikes me ; I see how lite- 
rary men may be rewarded, literature soundly 
encouraged, and yet the author be injured the 
least possible by his craft. Hitherto we have 



[ 74 ] 

given pensions for what a man has written. I 
would do this ; I would ascertain when a man 
has acquired that lamentable facility for doing 
second-rate things which is not uncommon in 
literature as in other branches of life, and then 
I would say to him, I see you can write, here is 
a hundred a year for you as long as you are 
quite quiet. Indeed, I think pensions and 
honours should generally be given to the persons 
who could have done the things for which such 
rewards are given, but who have not done them. 
I would say to this man, You have great parlia- 
mentary influence, you did not use it for mere 
party purposes; here is a peerage for you. You, 
turning to another man, might have become a 
great lawyer, or rather a lawyer in great place, 
you had too much — 

Milverton. Modesty — 

Ellesmere. Pooh, nonsense ! modesty never did 
anybody any harm. No, let me go on with my 
speech. You had too much honesty, or scrupu- 
lousness, to escape being thrown out for the 
borough of — which (as a lawyer to get on in 
the highest offices must please a constituency as 
well as understand his business) was fatal to you. 
Here, however, is a baronetcy for you. 

Here, you, Mr. Milverton, you might have 



[ 75 ] 

written two books a year (dreadful thought !) 
you have not always inflicted one upon us. Be 
Guelphed and consider yourself well off. Keep 
yourself quiet for several years, and we may 
advance you further. 

Oh, what a patron of arts and letters is lost 
in me ! Now this dog can bark and make a 
horrible noise to distinguish himself; he does 
not do it — that is why I like you so much, my 
dear Rollo, (at that instant, unluckily, Rollo 
taking heed of Ellesmere's comical gestures and 
seeing that something was addressed to him, 
began to frisk about and bark.) Oh, dear me, I 
see one can't praise or encourage any creature 
without doing mischief. 

Milverton. You have not to reproach yourself 
for having done much in this way. 

Ellesmere. Too much — sadly too much. But 
here comes John with a solicitous face, to get 
your orders about planting the trees which came 
last night, and which ought to have been put in 
early this morning. Attend to them; they are 
your great works ; some of them may live to a 
remote posterity; and, while you are about it, 
my good fellow, do put in something which will 
produce eatables. Those fir cones are very pretty 
things, but hard to eat. Remember that a 



[ 76 ] 

certain learned gentleman who hopes to live to 
a good old age, is very fond of mulberries; and 
if some trees were put in now, he might have 
something good to eat when he comes into the 
country, and be able to refresh himself after 
delivering judicious opinions on all subjects. 

So we separated, I to my trees, and Ellesmere 
to take the dog out for a walk. 



CHAPTER VI. 

IBESOLVED to-day to go out into the 
neighbouring pine-wood alone, to con over 
some notes which I am anxious to read by 
myself, with only an occasional remark from a 
wood pigeon, or what may be gained from the 
gliding, rustling squirrel. There is scarcely any- 
thing in nature to be compared with a pine- 
wood, I think. I remember once when, after a 
long journey, I was approaching a city ennobled 
by great works of art, and of great renown, that 
I had to pass through what I was told by the 
guide-books was most insipid country, only to be 
hurried over as fast as might be, and nothing to 
be thought or said about it. But the guide- 
books, though very clever and useful things in 
their way, do not know each of us personally, 
nor what we secretly like and care for. Well, 
I was speeding through this ' uninteresting ' 
country, and now there remained but one long 



& 



[ 78 ] 

dull stage, as I read, to be gone through before 
I should reach the much-wished-for city. It 
was necessary to stay some time (for we travelled 
vetturino fashion) at the little post-house, and I 
walked on, promising to be in the way whenever 
the vehicle should overtake me. The road led 
through a wood, chiefly of pines, varied, how- 
ever, occasionally by other trees. 

Into this wood I strayed. There was that 
almost indescribably soothing noise (the Romans 
would have used the word 'susurrus'), the ag- 
gregate of many gentle movements of gentle 
creatures. The birds hopped but a few paces 
off, as I approached them; the brilliant butter- 
flies wavered hither and thither before me ; there 
was a soft breeze that day, and the tops of the 
tall trees swayed to and fro politely to each 
other. I found many delightful resting-places. 
It was not all dense wood; but here and there 
were glades (such open spots I mean as would 
be cut through by the sword for an army to 
pass) ; and here and there stood a clump of trees 
of different heights and foliage, as beautifully 
arranged as if some triumph of the art of land- 
scape had been intended, though it was only 
Nature's way of healing up the gaps in the 
forest. For her healing is a new beauty. 



[ 19 ] 

It was very warm, without which nothing is 
beautiful to me; and I fell into the pleasantest 
train of thought. The easiness of that present 
moment seemed to show the possibility of all 
care being driven away from the world some day. 
Eor thus peace brings a sensation of power with 
it. I shall not say what I thought of, for it is 
not good always to be communicative; but alto- 
gether that hour in the pine-wood was the hap- 
piest hour of the whole journey, though I saw 
many grand pictures and noble statues, a mighty 
river and buildings which were built when peo- 
ple had their own clear thoughts of what they 
meant to do and how they would do it. But in 
seeing these things there is, so to speak, some- 
thing that is official, that must be done in a, set 
way; and after all, it is the chance felicities in 
minor things which are so pleasant in a journey. 
You had intended, for instance, to go and hear 
some great service, and there was something to 
be done, and a crowd to be encountered; and 
you open your window and find, as the warm 
air streams in, that beautiful sounds come with 
it ; in truth your window is not far off from an 
opening in one of the cathedral windows, and 
there you stay drinking in all the music, being 
alone. You feel that a bit of good fortune has 



[ 8o ] 

happened to you : and you are happier all the 
day for it. 

It is the same thing in the journey of life: 
pleasure falls into no plan. 

I think I have justified my liking for a pine- 
wood ; and though the particular wood I can get 
at here is but a poor thing as compared with the 
great forests I have been thinking of, yet, looked 
at with all the reminiscence of their beauties, 
its few and mean particulars are so wrought 
upon by memory and fancy, that it brings be- 
fore me a sufficient picture, half seen, half recol- 
lected, of all that is most beautiful in sylvan 
scenery. 

To my wood then I wandered; and, after 
pacing up and down a little, and enjoying the 
rich colour of the trunks of the trees, I sat down 
upon a tree that had been lately felled, and read 
out my notes to myself. Here they are. They 
begin, I see, with a little narration, which how- 
ever is not a bad beginning. 

It was a bright winter's day; and I sat upon 
a garden seat in a sheltered nook towards the 
south, having came out of my study to enjoy the 
warmth, like a fly that has left some snug crevice 
to stretch his legs upon the unwontedly sunny 






[ 8i ] 

pane in December. My little daughter (she is a 
very little thing about four years old) came 
running up to me, and when she had arrived at 
my knees, held up a straggling but pretty weed. 
Then, with great earnestness and as if fresh from 
some controversy on the subject, she exclaimed, 
' Is this a weed, Papa ; is this a weed ¥ 

' Yes, a weed,' I replied. 

With a look of disappointment she moved off 
to the one she loved best amongst us; and, 
asking the same question, received the same 
answer. 

* But it has flowers,' the child replied. 

'That does not signify; it is a weed,' was the 
inexorable answer. 

Presently, after a moment's consideration, the 
child ran off again, and meeting the gardener 
just near my nook, though out of sight from 
where I sat, she coaxingly addressed him. 

' Nicholas dear, is this a weed V 

' Yes, miss, they call it ' Shepherd's purse.' ' 

A pause ensued : I thought the child was now 
fairly silenced by authority, when all at once 
the little voice began again, ' Will you plant it 
in my garden, Nicholas dear? do plant it in my 
garden.' 

There was no resisting the anxious entreaty 

G 



[ 8 2 ] 

of the child; and man and child moved off to- 
gether to plant the weed in one of those plots of 
ground which the children walk about upon a 
good deal, and put branches of trees in and 
grown-up flowers, and then examine the roots, 
(a system as encouraging as other systems of 
education I could name) and which they call 
their gardens. 

But the child's words 'will you plant it in 
my garden/ remained upon my mind. That is 
what I have always been thinking, I exclaimed : 
and it is what I will begin by saying. 

And, indeed, dear reader, if I were to tell 
you how long I have been thinking of the sub- 
ject which I mean to preface by the child's 
fond words; and how hopeless it has at times 
appeared to me to say anything worth hearing 
about it; and how I have still clung to my re- 
solve, and worked on at other things with a 
view of coming eventually to this, you would 
sympathize with me already, as we do with any 
man who keeps a task long in mind and heart, 
though he execute it at last but poorly, and 
though it be but a poor task, such as a fortune 
for himself, or a tomb for his remains. For we 
like to see a man persevere in anything. 



[ 83 ] 

Without more preface then I will say at once 
that this subject is one which I have been wont 
to call 'the great sin of great cities' — not that 
in so calling it, I have perhaps been strictly 
just, but the description will do well enough. 
For what is the thing which must so often 
diminish the pride of man when contemplating 
the splendid monuments of a great city, its 
shops, its public buildings, parks, equipages, and 
above all, the wonderful way in which vast 
crowds of people go about their affairs with so 
little outward contest and confusion ? I imagine 
the beholder in the best parts of the town, not 
diving into narrow streets, wandering sickened 
and exhausted near uncovered ditches in squalid 
suburbs, or studiously looking behind the brilliant 
surface of things. But what is it which on that 
very surface, helping to form a part of the bril- 
liancy (like the prismatic colours seen on stagnant 
film) conveys at times to any thoughtful mind an 
impression of the deepest mournfulness, a per- 
ception of the dark blots upon human civilization, 
in a word, some appreciation of the great sin 
of great cities'? The vile sewer, the offensive 
factory chimney, the squalid suburb tell their 
own tale very clearly. The girl with hardened 



[ 84 ] 

look and false, imprinted smile, tells one no less 
ominous of evil. 

In fact I do not know any one thing which 
concentrates and reflects more accurately the 
evils of any society than this sin. It is a measure 
of the want of employment, the uncertainty of 
employment, the moral corruption amongst the 
higher classes, the want of education amongst 
the lower, the relaxation of bonds between 
master and servant, employer and employed; and, 
indeed, it expresses the want of prudence, truth, 
light and love in that community. 

In considering any evil, our thoughts may be 
classed under three heads, the nature of it, the 
causes of it, the remedies for it. Often the 
discussion of any one of these great branches of 
the subject involves the other two; and it be- 
comes difficult to divide them without pedantry. 
But in general, we may, for convenience, attend 
to such a division of the subject. 



I. The Nature. 

The nature of the evil in this case is one 
which does not require to be largely dwelt upon ; 



[ 85 ] 

and yet several things must be said about it. 
One which occurs to me is the degradation of 
race. Thousands upon thousands of beautiful 
women are by it condemned to sterility. As a 
nation we should look with exceeding jealousy 
and alarm at any occupation which claimed our 
tallest men and left them without offspring. 
And, surely, it is no light matter in a national 
point of view that any sin should claim the 
right of consuming, sometimes as rapidly as if 
they were a slave population, a considerable 
number of the best looking persons in the com- 
munity. 

How slight, however, is the physical degra- 
dation compared with the mental degradation 
caused by this sin : and here I do not mean only 
the dishonour of the individuals, but the large 
social injury which the mere existence of such 
a thing causes. For it accustoms men to the 
contemplation of the greatest social failures, and 
introduces habitually a low view of the highest 
things. We are apt to look at each individual 
case too harshly; but the whole thing is not 
looked at gravely enough. This often happens 
in considering any great social abuse ; and so we 
frequently commence the remedy by some great 
injustice in a particular case. 



[ 86 ] 

In appreciating the nature of this evil, the 
feelings of the people concerned with it are a 
large part of the subject. On the one side are 
shame, pride, dejection, restlessness, hopelessness 
and a sense of ill-usage resulting in a bitter 
effrontery, a mean heartlessness, and a godless 
remorse. As a mere matter of statesmanship 
such a class requires to be looked to as pre-emi- 
nently dangerous. On the other side, is often 
the meanness without the shame; and a per- 
manent coarseness and unholiness of mind is 
inflicted upon the sex that most requires refine- 
ment and spirituality in the affections. 

To return, however, to a consideration of the 
feelings of the poor women, it may be noticed 
that they have an excessive fear of being left 
alone with their own recollections, which is, no 
doubt, a great obstacle to their being reclaimed. 
Withal there is something very grand though 
sad, that one of the main obstacles to outward 
improvement lies in the intensity of shame for 
the wrong-doing, in a dumb but profound re- 
morse. You may see similar feelings operating 
very variously among the greatest men whose 
spiritual state is at all known to us. Poor Lu- 
ther exclaims, ' When I am assailed with heavy 



[ 8 7 ] 

tribulations, I rush out among my pigs, rather 
than remain alone b y myself. The human heart 
is like a millstone in a mill; when you put 
wheat under it, it turns and grinds and bruises 
the wheat to flour; if you put no wheat, it still 
grinds on, but then it is itself it grinds and 
wears away.' 

Certainly the Gospel seems especially given to 
meet these cases of remorse and to prevent 
despair (not the tempter but the slave-driver to 
so many crimes) from having an unjust and 
irreligious hold, not so much on men's fears as on 
their fancies — especially their notions of per- 
fection as regards themselves. For I doubt not 
but that men and women much lower down in 
the scale of cultivation and sensibility than we 
imagine, are haunted by a sense of their own 
fall from what they feel and think they ought to 
have been. 



II. The Causes. 

The main cause of this sin on the woman's 
part is want — absolute want. This, though one 
of the most grievous things to contemplate, has 
at the same time a large admixture of hope in it. 
For, surely, if civilization is to make any suf- 



[ 88 ] 

ficient answer for itself and for the many- 
serious evils it promotes, it ought to be, that it 
renders the vicissitudes of life less extreme, that 
it provides a resource for all of us against ex- 
cessive want. Hitherto we have not succeeded 
in making it do so, but it is contended and with 
apparent justice, that it acts better in this re- 
spect than savage life. At any rate, to return 
to the main course of my argument, it is more 
satisfactory to hear that this evil is a result, 
on one side at least, of want rather than of 
depravity. 

The next great cause is in the over-rigid 
views and opinions, especially as against women, 
expressed in reference to unchastity. Chris- 
tianity has been in some measure to blame for 
this; though, if rightly applied, it would have 
been the surest cure. ' Publicans and sinners !* 
Such did He prefer before the company of pha- 
risees and hypocrites. These latter, however, 
have been in great credit ever since ; and, for 
my part, I see no end to their being pronounced 
for ever the choice society of the world. 

The virtuous, carefully tended and carefully 
brought up, ought to bethink themselves how 
little they may owe to their own merit that they 
are virtuous, for it is in the evil concurrence of 



[ 8 9 ] 

bad disposition and masterless opportunity that 
crime comes. Of course to an evil-disposed 
mind, opportunity will never be wanting; but, 
when one person or class of persons is from 
circumstances peculiarly exposed to temptation, 
and goes wrong, it is no great stretch of charity 
for others to conclude that that person, or class, 
did not begin with worse dispositions than they 
themselves who are still without a stain. This 
is very obvious; but it is to be observed that 
the reasoning powers which are very prompt in 
mastering any simple scientific proposition, ex- 
perience a wonderful halting in their logic when 
applied to the furtherance of charity. 

There is a very homely proverb about the fate 
of the pitcher that goes often to the water which 
might be an aid to charity, and which bears 
closely on the present case. The Spaniards, from 
whom I dare say we have the proverb, express 
it prettily and pithily. 

' Cantarillo que muchas vezes va a la fuente, 
O dexa la asa, o la frente.' 

1 The little pitcher that goes often to the fountain, 
either leaves the handle, or the spout, behind some 
day.' 

The dainty vase which is kept under a glass case 
in a drawing-room, should not be too proud of 



[ 9o ] 

remaining without a flaw, considering its great 
advantages. 

In the New Testament we have such matters 
treated in a truly divine manner. There is no 
palliation of crime. Sometimes our charity is 
so mixed up with a mash of sentiment and sickly 
feeling that we do not know where we are, and 
what is vice and what is virtue. But here are 
the brief stern words, 'Go, and sin no more;' 
but, at the same time, there is an infinite consi- 
deration for the criminal, not however as criminal, 
but as human being; I mean not in respect of 
her criminality but of her humanity. 

Now an instance of our want of obedience to 
these Christian precepts has often struck me in 
the not visiting married women whose previous 
lives will not bear inspection. Whose will? 
Not merely all Christian people, but all civilized 
people, ought to set their faces against this ex- 
cessive retrospection. 

But if ever there were an occasion on which 
men (I say men but I mean more especially 
women) should be careful of scattering abroad 
unjust and severe sayings, it is in speaking of 
the frailties and delinquencies of women. For 
it is one of those things where an unjust judg- 
ment, or the fear of one, breaks down the bridge 



[ 9i ] 

behind the repentant ; and has often made an 
error into a crime, and a single crime into a life 
of crime. 

A daughter has left her home, madly, ever so 
wickedly, if you like, but what are too often the 
demons tempting her onwards and preventing 
her return? The uncharitable speeches she 
has heard at home ; and the feeling she shares 
with most of us, that those we have lived with 
are the sharpest judges of our conduct. 

Would you, then, exclaims some reader or 
hearer, take back and receive with tenderness a 
daughter who had erred ] 6 Yes,' I reply, ' if 
she had been the most abandoned woman upon 
earth.' 

A foolish family pride often adds to this un- 
charitable way of feeling and speaking which I 
venture to reprehend. Our care is not that an 
evil and an unfortunate thing has happened, but 
that our family has been disgraced, as we call it. 
Family vanity mixes up with and exasperates 
rigid virtue. Good Heavens, if we could but see 
where disgrace really lies ; how often men would 
be ashamed of their riches and their honours ; 
and would discern that a bad temper, or an ir- 
ritable disposition, was the greatest family dis- 
grace that attached to them. 



[ 9* ] 

A fear of the uncharitable speeches of others 
is the incentive in many courses of evil ; but it 
has a peculiar effect in the one we are consider- 
ing, as it occurs with most force just at the most 
critical period — when the victim of seduction is 
upon the point of falling into worse ways. Then 
it is that the uncharitable speeches she has heard 
on this subject in former days are so many goads 
to her, urging her along the downward path of 
evil. "What a strange desperate notion it is of 
men, when they have erred, that things are at 
the worst, that nothing can be done to rescue 
them : whereas Judas Iscariot might have done 
something better than hang himself. 

But if we were all so kind, exclaims some 
rigid man, we should only encourage the evil we 
wish to subdue. He does nob see that the first 
step in evil and the abandonment to it as a 
course of life proceed mostly from totally different 
motives, and are totally different things. One 
who dwelt on a secure height of peace and 
virtue, has fallen sadly and come down upon a 
table-land plagued with storms and liable to 
attacks of all kinds, and from which there is no 
ascent to the height again ; but which is still 
at an immense distance above a certain abyss ; 
and we should be very cautious of doing any- 



[ 93 ] 

thing that might make the foolish, dejected, 
pride-led person plunge hopelessly down into 
the abyss, in all probability, to be lost for ever. 

Before quitting the subject of the family, I 
must observe that, independently of any harsh- 
ness of remark which a young person may have 
been accustomed to hear on matters connected 
with our present subject, the ill-management of 
parents must be taken into account as one of 
the most common causes of this sin. It is 
very sad to be obliged to say this, but the thing 
is true and must be said. We must not, how- 
ever, be too much discouraged at this, for the 
truth is, that to perform well any one of the 
great relations of life is an immense difficulty; 
and when we see on a tomb-stone (those under- 
neath can now say nothing to the contrary) that 
the defunct was a good husband, father, and son, 
we may conclude, if the words were truthful, 
that we are passing by the mortal remains of an 
admirable Crichton in morality. And these 
relations are the more difficult, as they are not 
to be completely fulfilled by an abnegation of 
self, in other words by a weak giving way upon 
all points, which is the ruin of many a person. 
I am not, however, going, in this particular case, 
to speak of the spoiling of children in the ordi- 



[ 94 ] 

nary sense, but rather of the contrary defect, 
which, strange to say, is quite as common, if not 
more so. Of necessity the ages of parents and 
children are separated by a considerable interval ; 
the particular relation is one full of awe and 
authority; and the effect of that disparity of 
years and of that natural awe and authority may 
easily by harsh or ungenial parents be strained 
too far; other persons and the world in general 
(not caring for the welfare of those who are no 
children of theirs, and besides using the just 
courtesy towards strangers) are often tolerant 
when parents are not so, which puts them to a 
great disadvantage ; small matters are often 
needlessly made subjects of daily comment and 
blame; and, in the end, it comes that home is 
sometimes anything but the happy place we 
chose to make it out in songs and fictions of 
various kinds. This, when it occurs, is a great 
pity. I am for making home very happy to 
children if it can be managed, which of course is 
not to be done by weak compliances, and having 
no fixed rules. For no creature is happy, or even 
free, as Goethe has pointed out, except in the 
circuit of law. But laws and regulations having 
once been laid down, all within those bounds 
should be very kind at home. Now listen to 



[ 95 ] 

the captious querulous scoldings that you may 
hear, even as you go along the streets, addressed 
by parents to children, is it not manifest that in 
after life there will be too much fear in the 
children's minds, and a belief that their father 
and mother never will sympathize with them as 
others even might, never will forgive them. 
People of all classes, high and low, err in the 
same way ; and in looking about the world, I have 
sometimes thought that a thoroughly judicious 
father is one of the rarest creatures to be met with. 

Another cause of the frailty of women in the 
lower classes is in the comparative inelegance 
and uncleanliness of the men in their own class. 
It also arises from the fondness which all women 
have for merit, or what they suppose to be such, 
so that their love is apt to follow what is in any 
way distinguished : and this throws the women 
of any class cruelly open to the seductions of the 
men in the class above. For women are the 
real aristocrats; and it is one of their greatest 
merits. Men's intellects, even some of the 
brightest, may occasionally be deceived by 
theories about equality and the like, but women, 
who look at reality more, are rarely led away by 
nonsense of this kind. 



[ 96 ] 

A cause of this sin of a very different kind, 
and applying to men, is a dreadful notion which 
has occasionally been adopted in these latter 
ages, namely, that it is a fine thing for a man to 
have gone through a great deal of vice — to have 
had much personal experience of wickedness^ — in 
short, that knowledge of vice is knowledge of the 
world, and that such knowledge of the world is 
eminently useful. That is not the way in which 
the greatest thinkers read the world; they tell 
us that 

' The Gods approve the depth and not the tumult 
of the soul/ 

Self-restraint is the grand thing, is the great 
tutor. 

But let us not talk insincerely even for a 
good end, as we may suppose : and therefore do 
not let us deny that every evil carries with it its 
teachings. An indulgence in dissipation teaches 
that dissipation is a fatal thing : and the man 
who learns that, very often does not learn any- 
thing more. But the excellence of particular 
men must greatly consist in their appreciating 
truths without having to pay the full experience 
for them; so that in those respects they have a 
great start of other men. However, whether these 



[ 97 ] 

theories of mine be true or not, there can be no- 
doubt, I think, that indulgence of any kind is a 
thing which requires no theory ■ to support it ; 
and I do not think it will be found that the men 
of consummate knowledge of the world have 
gained that knowledge by vice ; but rather, 
as all other knowledge is gained, by toil and 
truth and love and self-restraint. And these 
four things do not abide with vice. 

Probably, too, a low view of humanity which 
vice gives, is in itself the greatest barrier to the 
highest knowledge. 

One great source of the sin we are considering 
is the want of other thoughts. Here puritanism 
comes in, as it has any time these two hundred 
years, to darken and deepen every mischief. 
The lower orders here are left with so little to 
think of but labour and vice. Now any grand 
thought, great poetry, or noble song is adverse 
to any abuse of the passions — even that which 
seems most concerned with the passions. For 
all that is great in idea, that insists upon men's 
attention, does so by an appeal, expressed or im- 
plied, to the infinite within him and around him. 
A man coming from a great representation of 
Macbeth is not in the humour for a low intrigue : 

H 



[ 98 ] 

and, in general, vice, especially of the kind we 
are considering, seizes hold not of the passionate, 
so much as of the cold and vacant mind. 

On this account education and cultivation are 
to be looked to as potent remedies. The plea- 
sures of the poor will be found to be moral 
safeguards rather than dangers. I smile some- 
times when I think of the preacher in some 
remote country place imploring his hearers not 
to give way to backbiting, not to indulge in low 
sensuality, and not to busy themselves with other 
people's affairs. Meanwhile what are they to do 
if they do not concern themselves with such 
things'? The heavy ploughboy who lounges 
along in that listless manner has a mind which 
moves with a rapidity that bears no relation to 
that outward heaviness of his. That mind will 
be fed ; will consume all about it, like oxygen, 
if new thoughts and aspirations are not given 
it. The true strategy in attacking any vice, is 
by putting in a virtue to counteract it ; in at-„ 
tacking any evil thought, by putting in a good 
thought to meet it. Thus a man is lifted into 
a higher state of being, and his old slough falls 
off him. 

With women, too, there is this especial danger 
that fiction has hitherto been apt to tell them 



[ 99 ] 

that they are nothing if they are not loved, and 
to fill their heads with the most untrue views of 
human life. Fiction must try and learn that 
she is only Truth with a mask on, so that she 
may speak truer things sometimes with less 
offence than Truth herself. Fiction must not 
represent love as always such a very fine thing, 
or as tending invariably to felicity, thus ignoring 
the trials of wedded life, and of affection gene- 
rally — as if life were cut into two parts, one 
all shade, the other all light. We cannot school 
Love much ; but sometimes he might be induced 
to listen to reason. And at any rate all would 
agree that much mischief may be done by un- 
sound representations of human life in this very 
important respect. 

But, our antagonist may say, these very 
fictions are amusement, and so far of use as 
furnishing some food for the mind. Yes: and 
I am not prepared to say that bad fictions or 
almost anything may not be better than nothing 
for the mind. But when continuous cultivation 
is joined to education, (which should be the 
object for statesmen and governing people of all 
kinds) people will not be supposed to be educated 
at the time of their nonage, and then left sight 
of and hold of for evermore, as far as regards 



[ 10 ° ] 

their betters. But it will be seen that we are 
all so far children, or at least like children in 
some respects, throughout our lives, that the 
means of cultivation should be successively 
offered to us. 

It is difficult to see the drift of the foregoing 
words without an example. But what I mean 
is this — do not let us merely teach our poor 
young people to read and write and hear about 
all manner of arts, sciences and productions, and 
then dropping these young people at the most 
dangerous age, provide no amusements, enable 
them to carry on no pursuits, throw open no 
refinements of life to them, shew them no parks, 
no gardens, and leave them to the pothouse and 
their sordid homes. 

Of course they will go wrong if we do. 



III. The Remedies. 

As poverty came first among the causes, so to 
remove it must come first among the remedies. 
For this purpose let it be carefully observed what 
class of persons furnishes most victims to this 
sin. Try and mend the evils of that class. 

There will be two kinds of poverty, the one 



[ "I ] 

arising from general inadequacy of pay for em- 
ployment that is pretty constant ; the other 
from uncertainty of employment at particular 
periods. Each requires to be dealt with dif- 
ferently. Frequently, though, they are found 
combined. 

To meet the first of these evils more work 
must be found in the country, or some hands 
must be removed out of it. 

If emigration is. to be adopted, it should be 
done in a different manner from any that has 
yet been attempted. 

But it seems as if something better than, or 
besides, emigration might be attempted. 

It may seem romantic, but I cannot help 
hoping that considerable investigation into prices 
may lead people to ascertain better what are fair 
wages, and that purchasers will not run madly 
after cheapness. There are everywhere just 
men who endeavour to prevent the price of la- 
bourers' wages from falling below what they 
(the just men) think right. I have no doubt 
that this has an effect upon the whole labour- 
market, Christianity coming in to correct poli- 
tical economy. And so, in other matters, I can 
conceive that private persons may generally 
become more anxious to put aside the evils of 



[ T ° 2 ] 

competition, and to give, as well as get, what is 
fair. 

But many things might be done to enable the 
wages of the poor to go further : and surely the 
glory of a state, and of the principal people in 
it, should be that men make the most of their 
labour in that state. 

Improvement of dwellings is one means.* 

Improvements in the representation and 
transfer of property are other great means to 
this end. 

It may seem that I have wandered far from 
the subject (the great sin of great cities) to ques- 
tions of currency and transfer of property. But 
I am persuaded that there is the closest con- 
nexion between subjects of this kind. The in- 
vestment of savings is surely a question of the 



* Many a workwoman earns but 75. a week. She has 
to pay 35., or 35. 6d. for one miserable apartment. Take 
her food at 3s. or 2s. 6d. ; and there will remain 15. a week 
to provide for clothing, sickness, charity, pleasure, and 
miscellaneous expenditure of all kinds. It is easy to see 
that any sudden mishap, such as sickness, must wreck 
such a person's means ; and also that where lies the chief 
room for making these means go further, is in the expen- 
diture for lodgings, which now consumes about half her 
earnings. 



[ io 3 ] 

highest importance. But it is not that only 
which I mean. All manner of facilities should 
be given to the poor to become owners of pro- 
perty ; and wherever it could be managed, al- 
most in spite of themselves, they should be made 
so : that is, by putting by portions of their 
wages when it is manifestly possible for this to 
be done, as in the case of domestic servants, 
or where the employed are living with, or in 
some measure under the guidance of, their em- 
ployers. 

Much is being attempted by various bene- 
volent persons in ways of this kind; and the 
greatest attention should be paid to these ex- 
periments. 

There are various things which the State 
could do in these matters ; but it would require 
a very wise and great government : and how is 
such a thing to be got ? In the act of rising to 
power men fail to obtain the knowledge and 
thought, and especially the purpose, to use 
power. There is some Eastern proverb, I 
think, about the meanest reptiles being found 
at the top of the highest towers. That, as ap- 
plied to government, is ill-natured and utterly 
untrue. But people who are swarming up a 



[ 10 4 ] 

difficult ascent, or maintaining themselves with 
difficulty on a narrow ledge at a great height, 
are not employed exactly in the way to become 
great philosophers and reformers of mankind. 
Constitutional governments may be great bless- 
ings, but nobody can doubt that they have their 
price. There are, however, excellent men in high 
places amongst us at the present moment ; but 
timidity in attempting good is their portion, 
especially by any way that has not become 
thoroughly invincible in argument. I suppose 
that any man who should try some very gene- 
rous thing as a statesman, and should fail, would 
be irretrievably lost as a statesman. 

Meanwhile socialism is put forward to fill the 
void of government : and if government does 
not make exertion, we may yet have dire things 
to encounter. By government in the foregoing 
sentence I mean not only what we are in the 
habit of calling such, but all the governing and 
directing persons in a nation. Some of them are 
certainly making great efforts even now, and 
there lies our hope. 

But, supposing that the supply of workmen 
and workwomen could be better adapted to the 
demand ; and that means could be found to pro- 



[ I0 5 ] 

vide in some measure for neutralizing the ill 
effects of the uncertainty of employment (which 
two things though very difficult are still not 
beyond the range of human endeavour and ac- 
complishment), there would yet remain many, 
very many, individual cases of utter and sudden 
distress and destitution amongst young women 
which form the chief causes of their fall. Now 
how are these to be averted ? 

There should be some better means of inter- 
communication between rich and poor than 
there is at present. It seems as if the priests of 
all religions might perform that function, and 
that it should be considered one of their most 
important functions. It should be done, if pos- 
sible, by some persons who come amongst the 
poor for other purposes than to relieve their 
poverty. At the same time there might be an 
administrative officer of high place and power in 
the government who should be on the alert to 
suggest and promote good offices of the kind I 
have just alluded to. In reality the Minister ot 
education (if we had one) would be the real mi- 
nister for destitution, as doing most to prevent 
it ; and various minor duties of a humane kind 
might devolve upon him. 

Any one acquainted with the annals of the 



[ 106 ] 

poor will tell how familiar such words are to 
him as the following, and how true on enquiry 
he has found them. ' Father fell ill of the 
fever, (the fever the poor girl may well say, for 
it is the fever which want of air and water, and 
working in stifling rooms have brought upon 
many thousands of our workmen) Mother and 
I did pretty well in the straw-bonnet line while 
she lived ; but she died come April two years : 
and I've been 'most starved since then, and took 
to those ways.' 

' You were fifteen when your mother died, 
you say, and you have no relations in this 
town V 

' There is my little brother, and he is in the 
Workhouse, and they let me go and see him on 
Mondays, and there is my Aunt, but she is a 
very poor woman and lives a long, long way off, 
and has a many children of her own.' 

6 You can read and write V 

c I can read a little.' 

Now of course there are thousands of cases of 
this kind in which one feels that the poor child 
has slipped out of the notice and care of people 
who would have been but too glad to aid her. 
I dare say neither mother nor child ever went 



[ i°7 ] 

to any church or chapel. And, in truth, let us 
be honest and confess that going to church in 
England is somewhat of an operation, especially 
to a poor, ill-clad person. This system of pews 
and places, the want of openness of churches, 
the length of the service resulting from the ad- 
mixture of services, the air of over-cleanliness 
and respectability which besets the place, and 
the difficulty of getting out when you like, are 
sad hindrances to the poor, the ill-dressed, the 
sick, the timid, the fastidious, the wicked and 
the cultivated. 

And then there is nobody into whose ear the 
poor girl can pour her troubles, except she comes 
as a beggar. This will be said to be a leaning 
on my part to the confessional. I cannot help 
that, I must speak the truth that is in me. And 
I wish that many amongst us Protestants, who 
would, I doubt not, welcome the duty, could, 
without pledging ourselves to all manner of doc- 
trines, but merely by a genial use of those com- 
mon relations of life which bring us in daily 
contact with the poor, fulfil much of what is 
genuinely good in the functions of a confessor, 
and thus become brothers of mercy and brothers 
of charity to the poor. 

Meanwhile it is past melancholy, and verges 



[ 108 ] 

on despair, to reflect upon what is going on 
amongst ministers of religion who are often but 
too intent upon the fopperies of religion to 
have heart and time for the substantial work 
entrusted to them — immersed in heart-breaking 
trash from which no sect is free ; for here are 
fopperies of discipline, there fopperies of doc- 
trine (still more dangerous as it seems to me). 
And yet there are these words resounding in 
their ears, i Pure religion and undenled is this, 
to visit tne fatherless and widows in their afflic- 
tion, and to keep oneself unspotted from the 
world.' And the word ' world,' as Coleridge has 
well explained, is this order of things, the order 
of things you tare in. Clerical niceness and 
over-sanctity, for instance, and making more and 
longer sermons than there is any occasion for, 
and insisting upon needless points of doctrine, 
and making Christianity a stumbling-block to 
many, that, excellent clergymen (for there are 
numbers who deserve the name), that is your 
world, there lies your temptation to err. 

It has occurred to me that schoolmasters and 
schoolmistresses would form good means of com- 
munication with the poor : and so much the 
better from their agency being indirect as regards 



[ io 9 ] 

worldly affairs;* I mean that their first business 
is not to care for the physical well-being of their 
pupils. In after life, they would be likely to 
know something of the ways and modes of life 
of their former pupils, and would be most 
valuable auxiliaries to landlords, master-manu- 
facturers, to masters in general and to all who 
are anxious to improve the condition of those 
under them. 

While talking of the schoolmaster, we must 
not omit to consider the immense importance, 
in its bearing on our subject, of a better edu- 
cation for women : especially for women of what 
are called the middling classes — an education 
which should develope in them the qualities and 
powers which they are most deficient in, such as 
stern reasoning which is at the foundation of 
justice, and which should free them from that 
absurd timidity of mind more than of body 



* In this respect the opportunities of medical men are 
very great ; and surely the medical profession best eman- 
cipates itself from any tendency to materialism and digni- 
fies itself by entering upon the duties and the privileges of 
a teacher and consoler, when it performs, as it very often 
does, some of those offices of charity which ever lie just 
under its hands. 



[ no ] 

which prevents their seeing things as they are, 
and makes them, and consequently men, the 
victims of conventionality. 

This thing, conventionality, is a great enemy 
to those who would war against the sin we are 
considering. Hypocrisy is said to be the homage 
which vice pays to virtue; conventionality is 
the adoration which both vice and virtue offer 
up to worldliness. See its ill effects in this par- 
ticular case. The discussion of our subject is 
almost beyond the pale of conventionality. 
Years ago, an old College friend denned this 
present writer as a man who could say the most 
audacious things with the least offence. I hope 
my friend was right, for, indeed, in discussing 
this subject I need all that power now. Con- 
ventionality stiffens up the whole figure and sets 
the eyes in the fixed direction it pleases, so that 
men and women can pass through the streets 
ignoring the greatest horrors which surround 
them. And consider, what a dangerous thing 
it is, when it is once presumed that there is any 
class with whom we can have no sympathy ; that 
there are any beings of a different kind from the 
rest of us. It is not for us, collections of dust, 
to feel contempt. In a future life we may have 



[ HI ] 

such a survey as may justify contempt, but then 
■we should have too much love to feel it. But, 
indeed, in most cases, it is not contempt, but 
conventionality, that induces us to pass by and 
ignore what it is not consistent with good taste 
to know anything about. 

But there is another fertile mode in which 
conventionality works in increasing the great 
sin of great cities. And that is by rendering 
all manner of imaginary wants real wants, and 
thus helping to enslave men and women. False 
shame has often, I doubt not, led to the worst 
consequences — the shame for instance arising 
from not having the clothes of a kind imagined 
to be fit for a particular station : and so, people 
submit to a vice to satisfy a foible. 

A class of persons who are found to furnish 
great numbers of the victims to the sin we are 
considering is that of domestic servants. This 
leads to a suspicion that there are peculiar temp- 
tations, weaknesses, errors, and mismanagement 
incident to that class. Their education, to 
begin with, is wretchedly defective. But besides 
that, they are particularly liable to the slavery 
of conventionality : indeed, there are few people 
more subdued by weak notions of what it is 



[ "2 ] 

correct for them to have and to be and to do : 
which often ends in anything but a correspon- 
dence of the reality of their condition with their 
ideal. It must be remembered, too, that they 
undergo in an especial degree the temptation of 
being brought near to a class superior to theirs 
in breeding and niceness; and consequently that 
they are very liable to be discontented with their 
own. 

But great improvement might be made in the 
management of servants. Their efforts to save 
money should be directed and aided. New 
means might be invented for that purpose. It 
might be much more generally arranged than it 
is, both in households and in other establish- 
ments, that a fund should be formed out of 
which those female servants who remained a 
certain time should have a sum of money, in 
fact what in official life is called ' retired allow- 
ances.' 

Then of course masters and mistresses should 
recognize the fact, instead of needlessly discou- 
raging it, that men and women love one another 
in all ranks — that Mary, if a pleasant or comely 
girl, is pretty nearly sure at some time or other 
to have a lover. Let the master and mistress 
be aware of that fact, and treat it as an open 



[ "3 ] 

question which may be discussed sometimes with 
advantage to all parties. 

Instead of such conduct, one hears sometimes 
that such maxims are laid down as that 'no 
followers are allowed.' What does a lady mean 
who lays down such a law in her household ] 
Perhaps she subscribes to some abolition society, 
which is a good thing in as far as it cultivates 
her kindly feelings towards an injured race. But 
does she know that, by this law of hers as applied 
to her owd household, she is imitating in a 
humble way one of the worst things connected 
with slavery? 

As this prohibition extends to near relations 
as well as to lovers, if obeyed it renders the 
position of a servant girl still more perilous as 
more isolated ; and if disobeyed, it is a fertile 
source of the habit of concealment, one of the 
worst to which all persons in a subordinate 
situation are prone. 

For my own part I could not bear to live 
with servants who were to see none of their 
friends and relations : I should feel I was keep- 
ing a prison and not ruling a household. 

Amongst the principal remedies must be 
reckoned, or at least hoped for, an improvement 

i 



[ "4 ] 

in men as regards this sin. To hope for such an 
improvement will be looked upon as chimerical 
by some persons, and the notion of introducing 
great moral remedies for the evil in question 
as wholly romantic. It seems impossible : every 
new and great thing does, till it is done ; and 
then the only wonder is that it was not done 
long ago. 

Oh that there were more love in the world, 
and then these things that we deplore could not 
be. One would think that the man who had 
once loved any woman, would have some tender- 
ness for all. And love implies an infinite re- 
spect. All that was said or done by Chivalry 
of old, or sung by Troubadours, but shadows 
forth the feeling which is in the heart of any 
one who loves. Love, like the opening of the 
heavens to the Saints, shows for a moment, 
even to the dullest man, the possibilities of the 
human race. He has faith, hope, and charity 
for another being, perhaps but a creation of his 
imagination : still it is a great advance for a 
man to be profoundly loving even in his imagi- 
nations. What Shelley makes Apollo exclaim, 
Love might well say too. 

* I am the eye with which the Universe 
Jicholds itself and knows itself divine : 



[ »5 ] 

All harmony of instrument or verse, 

All prophecy, all medicine are mine, 
All light of art or nature ; — to my song 
Victory and praise in their own right belong.' 

Indeed love is a thing so deep and so beauti- 
ful, that each man feels that nothing but con- 
ceits and pretty words have been said about it 
by other men. 

And then to come down from this and to 
dishonour the image of the thing so loved. No 
man could do so while the memory of love was 
in his mind. And, indeed, even without these 
recollections, we might hope that on the contem- 
plation of so much ruin, and the consideration 
of the exquisite beauty of the thing spoiled, 
there would sometimes come upon the heart of a 
man a pity so deep as to protect him from this 
sin as much as aversion itself could do. And 
we may imagine that even men of outrageous 
dissipation, but who have still left some great- 
ness and fineness of mind (like Mirabeau for ex- 
ample) will have a horror of the sin we are con- 
demning, though very sinful in other respects. 
And certainly the disgrace to humanity that there 
is in indiscriminate prostitution is appalling: 
and like constrained marriage for money, it has 
something more repulsive about it than is to be 



[ "6 ] 

met with in things that may be essentially more 
wicked. 

I hope I am not uncharitable in saying this; 
but anybody who thinks so must remember that 
what is alluded to by me is the worst form of 
the sin in question; as in fact it disgraces the 
streets of our principal cities — in utter loveless- 
ness and mercenary recklessness. 

I said above, 'the exquisite beauty of the 
thing spoiled.' And, in truth, how beautiful a 
thing is youth — beautiful in an animal. In con- 
templating it, the world seems young again for 
us. Each young thing seems born to new hopes. 
Parents feel this for their children, hoping that 
something will happen to them quite different 
from what happened to themselves. They would 
hardly take all the pains they do with these 
young creatures, if they could believe that the 
young people were only to grow up into middle- 
aged men and women with the usual cares and 
troubles descending upon them like a securely 
entailed inheritance. There is something fan- 
ciful in all this, and in reality a grown-up person 
is a much more valuable and worthy creature 
than most young ones : but still anything that 



[ "7 ] 

blights the young must ever be most repugnant 
to humanity. 

I had now read over all that I had put down 
in writing; and, as I laid aside the manuscript, 
I felt how sadly it fell short of what 1" had 
thought to say on this subject. I suppose, how- 
ever, that even when they are good, a man's 
words seem poor to himself, for the workman is 
too familiar with the wrong side of all his work- 
manship. Moreover, much must always lie in 
the ear of the hearer. We say enough to set 
alight the hidden trains of thought which abide 
in the recesses of men's hearts, unknown to 
them; and they are startled into thinking for 
themselves. After all, it is not often so requi- 
site for a writer to make things logically clear 
to men, as to put them into the mood he wishes 
to have them in. I suppose the snake-charmer 
and the horse- whisperer have some such scheme. 

But said I, as I threw some stones into a pool 
which was near me in a partial clearing of the 
wood, I would go on with this work if I knew 
that all my efforts would make no more stir 
than these pebbles in that pool. And then I 
proceeded to think of the topics which are yet 



[ "8 ] 

before me, full of doubt and difficulty. I should 
like to have some talk with Ellesmere, I ex- 
claimed; I fear he will have no sympathy with 
me and an utter disbelief in anybody doing any 
good in this matter. But he is a shrewd man 
of the world, and he speaks out fearlessly. It 
would be well to hear his remarks beforehand, 
while they may yet be of use to me. I certainly 
will consult him. 

I stept out of the wood into the beaten road, 
a change which I always feel to be like that 
which occurs in the mind of a man who, having 
been wrapt in some romance of his own, sud- 
denly disengages himself from it and talks with 
his fellows upon the ordinary topics of the day, 
affecting a shrewd care about the price of corn 
and the state of our foreign relations. 

By the time I reached Worth-Ashton I had 
left all forest thoughts well behind me, and was 
quite at home on the broad beaten road of com- 
mon-place affairs. 



CHAPTER VII. 

I HAVE read the foregoing notes to Elles- 
mere, whom I asked to come here the first 
lawyer's holiday that he could make. During 
the reading, which was in my study, he said 
nothing, but seemed, as I thought, unusually 
grave and attentive. "When it was finished, he 
proposed that we should walk out upon the 
downs. Still he made no remark, but strolled 
on moodily, until I said to him, c I am afraid, 
Ellesmere, you have some heavy brief which sits 
upon your mind just now; or, perhaps, I have 
somewhat wearied you in reading so much to 
you upon a subject about which you probably do 
not care much.' ' I care more than you do,' he 
replied — ' forgive my abruptness, Milverton, but 
what I say is true. To show you why I do care 
would be to tell you a long story and to betray 
to you that which I had never intended to tell 
mortal man. 

' But, if you care to hear it, I will tell you ; 



[ I2 ° ] 

it bears closely upon some of your views and may 
modify them in some way. I can talk to you on 
such a theme better than to almost any man, for it 
is like talking to a philosophic system, and yet 
there is still some humanity left in you, so that 
one may hope for a little sympathy now and then 
without having too much, or being afflicted with 
pity and wonder and foolish exclamations of any 
kind.' I did not interrupt him to defend my- 
self, being too anxious to hear what he had to 
say. Besides I saw this attack upon me was 
partly an excuse to himself for telling me some- 
thing which he hardly meant to tell. He threw 
himself down upon the turf, and after a few 
minutes' silence, thus began. 

Well, I was once upon my travels staying for 
a few days in a German town, not a very obscure 
or a very renowned one; but indeed the where- 
abouts is a very unimportant matter, and I do 
not particularize any of the minute circumstances 
of my story, because I do not wish hereafter to 
be reminded of them. I remember it was on a 
Sunday, and the day was fine. I remember, too, 
I went to church, to a Protestant church, where 
I did not understand much of what I heard, but 
liked what I did. They sang psalms, such as 



[ I" ] 

I fancy Luther would have approved of; and I 
thought it would be a serious thing for a hostile 
army to meet a body of men who had been thus 
singing. Grand music, such as you, for instance, 
would like better, is a good thing too. Our 
cathedrals might have combined both. I do not 
know why I tell you all this, for it does not im- 
mediately concern my story, but I suppose it is 
because I do not like to approach it too quickly, 
and I must linger on the details of a day which 
is so deeply imprinted upon my memory. I re- 
member well the sermon, or rather the bits of it 
which I understood, and out of which I made my 
sermon for myself. That pathetic word verloren 
(lost) occurred many times. Then there was a 
great deal about the cares of this life occupying 
so much time, and then about the pleasures, or 
the thoughts, of misspent youth being impressed 
upon manhood, to the perennial detriment of the 
character. I made out, or fancied I did, that it 
was a sermon showing how short a time was 
given to spiritual life. I dare say it was a very 
common-place sermon that I made of it; but 
somehow, the sermons we preach to ourselves, in 
which by the way we can be sure of taking the 
most apt illustrations from the store of our own 
follies, are always interesting. And when the 



[ I22 ] 

good preacher, a most benign and apostolic-look- 
ing man, pronounced the benediction, I felt as 
if I had been hearing some friendly searching 
words which might well be laid to heart. After 
the sermon was over, I strolled about. The day- 
moved on, and towards evening time, I went with 
the stream of the townspeople, gentle and simple, 
to some public gardens which lay outside the 
town and were joined to it by beautiful walks. 
People speak of the sadness of being in a crowd 
and knowing no one. There is something plea- 
sureable in it too. I wandered amongst the 
various groups of quiet, decorous, beer-imbibing 
Germans who in family-parties had come out 
to these gardens to drink their beer, smoke their 
pipes, and hear some music. In those unfortu- 
nate regions they have not made a ghastly idol 
of the Sunday. 

At last I sat down at a table where a young 
girl and a middle-aged woman who carried a 
baby were refreshing themselves with some very 
thin potation. They looked poor decent people. 
I soon entered into conversation with them, and 
therefore did not leave it long a matter of doubt 
that I was an Englishman. I perceived that 
something was wrong with my friends, although 
I could not comprehend what it was. I could 



[ I2 3 ] 

see that the girl could hardly restrain herself 
from bursting into tears ; and there was some- 
thing quite comical in the delight she expressed 
at some feats on the tight-rope, which she would 
insist upon my looking at, and her then in a 
minute afterwards returning to her quiet distress 
and anxious deplorable countenance. A proud 
English girl would have kept all her misery 
under due control, especially in a public-place ; 
but these Germans are a more simple natural 
people. 

Having by degrees established some relations 
between the party and myself by ordering some 
coffee and handing it round, and then letting the 
baby play with my watch, I asked what it was 
that ailed the girl. The girl turned round and 
poured out a torrent of eloquence which, how- 
ever, considerably exceeding the pace at which 
any foreign language enters into my apprehen- 
sion, was totally lost upon me, except that I 
perceived she had some complaint against some- 
body, and that she had a noble open countenance 
which, from long experience of the witness-box, 
I felt was telling me an unusual proportion of 
truth. One part of the discourse I perceived 
very clearly to be about money, and as she 
touched her gown (which was very neat and nice) 



r "4 ] 

it had something to do with the price of the said 
gown. 

We then talked of England, whereupon she 
asked me to take her with me as a servant. This 
abrupt speech might astonish some persons ; but 
not those who have travelled much. I dare say 
the same request has often been made to you, 
Milverton. 

Milverton. Oh, yes. They fancy this is an 
earthly paradise for getting money, bounded by 
a continual fog. 

Ellesmere. She then questioned me much as 
to the distance of England from where we were. 
And as I saw she was in a desperate mood, and 
might attempt some desperate adventure, I took 
care to explain to her the distance and the diffi- 
culties of the journey. Besides which, I contrived, 
putting the severest pressure on my stock of 
German, to convey to her that London was 
rather an extensive town, containing two mil- 
lions of people, and that it was not exactly the 
place for an unfriended young girl to be wander 
ing about. 

' The same thing everywhere, everywhere,' she 
exclaimed, in a tone of mournful reproach which 
I felt was levelled at our unchivalrous sex in 
general. 



[ I2 5 ] 

I felt interested to understand her story, and 
beginning to question her in detail again, ascer- 
tained so far, that she was or had been a servant, 
that she had been accustomed to take charge of 
children, having had eleven under her charge, 
that the wages were most wretched, which they 
certainly were ; but still it was not that or any 
of the ordinary kind of grievances which was 
now distressing her. Whenever we came to the 
gist of the discourse, she became more emphatic 
and I more stupid. At last I bethought me that 
if she were to write out what she had to say, I 
could then understand it well enough. This was 
a bright idea and one which I was able to con- 
vey to her. She was to bring me the writing on 
the ensuing morning in the great square. And 
having come to this agreement we parted, I 
taking care, with lawyer-like caution, to tell her 
that I did not know whether I could be of any 
use to her, with other discouraging expressions. 

The next morning, duly fortified with my 
pocket dictionary, I sat myself down to read her 
statement. Ah, how clearly the whole scene is 
before me. It was on a broad bench, close to a 
hackney-coach stand, within sight of the palace. 
She looked over me and read aloud ; and when 
I could not make out a word, we paused, and the 



[ 126 ] 

dictionary was put in requisition. The nearest 
hackney coachman lying back on his box threw 
now and then an amused glance at the proceed- 
ing. Hers was a simple touching story, touch- 
ingly told. I now know every word, every let- 
ter of it ; but then it was very hard for me to 
comprehend. 

It began by giving her birth, parentage and 
education. She was born of poor parents in the 
country a few miles out of the town. She was 
now an orphan. She had come into service in 
the town. Her master had endeavoured to se- 
duce her ; but she had succeeded in giving some 
notion of her miserable position to a middle- 
aged man, a friend of her family, who had taken 
an interest in her, and promised to receive her 
into his service. Then she gave warning to her 
mistress, who could not imagine the cause, and 
was displeased at her leaving. She could not 
tell her mistress for fear of vexing her. 

The character given by the mistress (which I 
saw) went well with this statement, as it was the 
praise of a person displeased. 

The new master that was to be, had told her 
where to go to (the lodgings where she was now 
staying) and ordered her to get decent clothes, 
before coming into his service. He did not live 



[ I2 7 ] 

in that town. She left her place accordingly, 
provided herself with the necessary things, and 
awaited his orders. Meanwhile his plans were 
changed. * He had just married, was probably 
about to travel, and wrote that he could not 
take her in. I am not sure that there was any 
deliberate wrong-doing or treachery on his part 
— merely a wicked carelessness, forgetting what 
a thing it is for a poor girl to be out of place, 
and not knowing that she had taken the step, 
perhaps, at the time he wrote. She had written 
again, and had received no answer. She was left 
in debt and in the utmost distress. 

This is the substance of what I eventually got 
out by cross-examination. She had been out 
into the suburbs in search of a place when I met 
her yesterday. The woman with the child, who 
was no relation, had reiterated to me there that 
she was a good girl and in great distress. 

The usual wicked easy way of getting out of 
her difficulties had been pressed upon her — 
Ich mag das Geld nicht auf eine schlechte Art 
bekommen, sonst wurdeich es in kurzer Zeit haben; 
but she trusted that ' the dear God would never 
permit this, so she put her trust in Him.' Ich 
hoffe aber, der liebe Gott wird das nicht zugeben, 
denn ich verlasse mich auflhn. 



[ »8 ] 

I remember that, occasionally, while we were 
spelling over what she had written, her large 
beautiful hand (do not smile, Milverton, a hand 
may be most beautiful and yet large) rested on 
the page. There was a deep scar upon it, the 
mark of a burn, that told of some household 
mishap. I have seen many beautiful hands be- 
fore and after, but none so beautiful to me. 

At last we got through the writing and 
paused. c This is a bad business,' I exclaimed ; 
and then I fell into a reverie, not upon her par- 
ticular case so much, as upon the misery that 
there is in the world. At last I looked up and 
felt quite remorseful at the wistful agonised ex- 
pression of the girl whom I had been keeping 
in suspense all this time, while indulging my own 
thoughts. She evidently thought (you know the 
extremely careless ill-dressed figure I generally 
am) that to assist her was quite out of my 
power. And so it was at the moment, for I 
had not the requisite silver about me. Indeed 
why should the rich carry any money about with 
them, when they have always the poor to borrow 
it from. However I had some silver in my 
pocket and gave her that, promising to bring the 
rest. Her ecstasy was unbounded : of course 
she began to cry (no woman is above that) 



[ I2 9 ] 

though seeing my excessive dislike to that pro- 
ceeding, she did the best to suppress it, only 
indulging in an occasional sob. Her first idea 
was what she could do for the money. She 
would work for any time. We had found out 
that writing was better than talking ; and here 
are her very words (I always carry them about 
with me), 6 Was soil ich Ihnen fur einen Dienst 
dafilr thun V ' What shall I do for you in the 
way of any service for this ? ' ' Nothing,' I re- 
plied, 'but only to be a good girl.' 

One thing I have omitted to tell you : but I 
may as well tell it. It is no matter now. While 
we were reading over the letter, I happened to 
ask her whether she had a lover. I had hardly 
asked the question before I would have given 
anything to have been able to recall it, as we 
sometimes do in Court when a question is ob- 
jected to. Her simple answer came crushing 
into my ears, ' Yes, but a poor man and far 
away.' She thought my object in asking was 
to ascertain Whether there was any help to be 
got from any other quarter : this she answered, 
so like her sensible self, without any bridling-up 
or nonsense of any kind — a simple answer to a 
simple question. But the words went down 

K 



[ J 3° ] 

like a weight into my heart, which has never 
been quite lifted off again. In short, Milverton, 
I loved. 

"What should possess me to-day to tell yon 
this wild story I know not. I know you really 
care for nothing but great interests and great 
causes, as you call them. With intense mad 
love for any one human being you cannot sym- 
pathize. I always noted the same in you from 
your boyhood upwards. Talk to you of a body 
of men — of a class — of a million, for instance, 
of people suffering anything, and you are imme- 
diately interested. But for any one of us you 
care nothing. I see through you, and always 
have. But I like you. Do not answer me, you 
know it is true. 

I did not answer him, though knowing what 
he said to be most untrue, and yet to have just 
that dash of plausibility in it, which makes in- 
justice so hard to unravel. He proceeded. I 
saw Gretchen (that was her name) more than 
once again, and had a great deal of talk with 
her, finding my first impressions amply verified ; 
and I still think her one of the best intellects, 
and most beautiful natures, I have ever seen. 
I had in my pocket a very learned letter from 
one of the German Professors of law to whom 



[ i3i ] 

I had delivered a letter of introduction on pass- 
ing through his town, on some points of juris- 
prudence, referring to Savigny's work. The parts 
of this which had been unintelligible I made her 
construe to me ; some of it was quite indepen- 
dent of technicalities, but merely required hard 
thinking and clear explanation. The girl with 
my help made it all out. But of course it was 
not of such themes that she liked to talk, for 
women love personal talk, arid their care is to 
know, not what men think about, but what they 
feel. One speech of hers dwells in my mind. 
1 You must be very happy at home/ she said. 
I thought of my mouldy chambers and the kind 
of life I lead, and replied with an irony I could 
not check, * very :' and so satisfied her gentle 
questionings. 

I did not delay my departure longer than I 
had at first intended ; for in these cases when 
you have done any good, it is well to be sure 
you do not spoil it in any way. She would not 
have any more money than a trifling sum that 
was a little more than sufficient to pay off the 
debts already due, and they amounted to the very 
same sum she had originally mentioned to me in 
the gardens. We parted. Before parting she 
begged me to tell her my name : then timidly 



[ x 32 ] 

she kissed my Land ; and, bursting into tears, 
threw her hood over her face and hurried away 
a little distance. Afterwards I saw her turn to 
watch the departure of the huge diligence in 
which I had ensconced myself. 

Milverton. And you never saw her any more. 

Ellesmere. Once more. Not being a philo- 
sopher or a philanthropist, I do not easily forget 
those I once care for. I studied how to protect 
her in every way. I mastered the politics of that 
German town ; and learnt all the intricacies of 
the little Court there. I ascertained everything 
respecting our relations with it, and who amongst 
our diplomatists was desirous of the residence 
there, when there should be a change. I busied 
myself more in politics than I had done ; and I 

believe I must own that my speech on the 

intervention, which had its merits and cost me 
great labour, was spoken for Gretchen. Of 
course I need hardly say that I spoke only what 
I most sincerely thought ; but I should probably 
have let politics alone but for her sake. At 
last there was an opportunity of a new appoint- 
ment being made of a Minister to that German 
Court ; and the man who wished for it, and whose 
just claims I had aided as I best could, obtained it. 
His wife, Lady B,., one of those brilliant women 



[ *33 ] 

of the world who are often more amiable than 
we give them credit for being, had long noticed 
the care with which I had cultivated her society. 
She imagined it was for one of her beautiful 
daughters, and did not look unkindly upon me. 

Before she went to reside at I undeceived 

her, telling her the whole truth, the best thing 
in such a case, and binding her to secresy. She 
promised to look out for Gretchen and to take 
her into her household. I told Lady E. that 
Gretchen had a lover and said, that if anything 
could be done for him, without lifting him out 
of his rank, it should be. Neither would I 
have Gretchen made anything different from 
what she was. I could have given her money by 
handfuls, but that is not the way to serve people. 
At the same time I implored Lady R. to let me 
know immediately in case anything should ever 
occur to break off the marriage. 

Milverton. And you would have put in your 
suit and married this girl. 

Ellesmere, There was but little chance, I 
fear; but you may be sure no opportunity 
would have escaped me. As for the world, I 
am one of the few persons who really care but 
little for it. The hissing of collected Europe, 
provided I knew the hissers could not touch 



[ 134 ] 

me, would be a grateful sound rather than 
the reverse — that is, if heard at a reasonable 
distance. 

Well, but I told you I saw Gretchen once 
more. Yes, once more. You may remember 
that some time ago I had a very severe illness : 
and was not able to attend the Courts on an 
occasion when I was much wanted. This ap- 
peared in the newspapers of the day, and so I 
conjecture, came to the knowledge of Gretchen, 
who in her quiet indefatigable way had learnt 
English and was a great student, as I afterwards 
heard, of English newspapers. She had also 
contrived to learn more about my life than I 
chose to tell her when I answered her question 
about my being happy j and the poor girl had 
formed juster notions of the joyousness and 
comfort of a lawyer's chambers in London. She 
begged for leave of absence to visit a sick friend : 
Lady E. conjectured I believe where she was 
going, and consented. 

A few days afterwards there was a knock at 
my door (I was still very ill and unable to leave 
my sitting-room, but solacing life as best I could 
by the study of a great pedigree-case) when my 
Clerk with an anxious and ashamed countenance, 
put his head in, made one of those queer faces 



[ *35 ] 

which he does when he thinks a great bore is 
wishing to see me and that I had better say ' no/ 
and exclaimed i a young woman from Germany, 
Sir, wants to see you.' I knew, instinctively, 
who it was, but had the presence of mind to 
make a gesture signifying I would not see her, 
(for I could not have spoken) and I was afraid 
in my present state of weakness I should betray 
myself in some way, if I were to see her un- 
prepared. While the parleying was going on in 
the passage, I collected myself sufficiently to ring 
for my clerk and tell him, he might appoint the 
young woman to come in the afternoon. By 
that time I had reflected upon my part and was 
somewhat of myself again. She came : I scolded 
and protested, she did nothing in reply, but look 
at me and say how thin I was; and there was 
no resisting the quiet, affectionate, discreet way 
in which she installed herself every day for some 
hours as head nurse. Even my old laundress 
relaxed so far as to say that Gradgin (for that 
was what she called her) was a good girl and not 
hoity-toity : and my clerk Peter, a very can- 
tankerous fellow, was heard to remark, that for 
his part, he did not like young women much, but 
Miss Gradgin was better than most, and certainly 
his master did somehow eat more of an v thing 



[ i3« ] 

made by her than by anybody else, and never 
threatened now to throw the chicken-broth he 
brought in at his head. 

I jest at these things, Milverton : and in truth 
what remains for us often in this world but to 
jest 1 Which of the Queens was it, by the way, who 
on the scaffold played with the sharpness of the 
axe, and said something droll about her little 
neck 1 Well, I jest, but this visit of Gretchen's 
was a very severe trial to me. It is a common 
trial though, I dare say. No doubt many a person 
dotes upon or adores some one else, who is, hap- 
pily, as unconscious of the doting or adoration 
as Earn Dass, or any other heathen deity, of the 
fanatic love of his worshippers. To the loving 
person, however, it is like walking over hot iron 
with no priest-anointed feet, and yet with un- 
moved countenance, not even allowed to look 
stoical. I could not resist listening sometimes 
to Gretchen's wise, innocent, pleasant talk about 
all the new things she was seeing ; and perhaps 
if I had not kept carefully before me the claims 
of the absent peasant lover, some day when she 
was moving about me like sun-light in the room, 
I might in some moment of frenzy, which I 
should never have forgiven myself, have thrown 
myself at her feet and asked her to take these 



[ J 37 ] 

dingy chambers and my faded self and all my 
belongings under her permanent control. But 
wiser, sterner, juster thoughts prevailed. 

I got better, and it was time for Gretchen to 
be thinking of going. Of course no foreigner 
can leave London without seeing the Thames 
Tunnel ; and I observed that the morose Peter, 
though in general very contemptuous of sight- 
seeing and sight-seers, was wonderfully ready to 
escort Gretchen to see the Tunnel, which I 
thought a great triumph on her part. I spared 
myself the anguish of parting with her : a case 
came on rather unexpectedly in a distant part 
of the country, and I was sent for c special,' as 
we say. Kings and tetrarchs might have quar- 
relled for what I cared ; I would not have med- 
dled in their feuds to lose one hour of Gretchen's 
sweet companionship, if I might have had it 
heartily and fairly ; but, as things were, I 
thought this a famous opportunity for making 
my escape without a parting. And so I started 
suddenly for the North, bidding Gretchen adieu 
by letter, expressing all my gratitude for her 
attention, and being able to rule and correct my 
expressions as it seemed good to me. Before I 
returned she had left, taking leave of me in a 
fond kind letter in which she blamed me much 



[ ^38 ] 

for being so regardless of my health, and added 
a few words about my evident anxiety to get rid 
of her, which sounded to me like some wild 
strain of irony. Ever since, my chambers have 
seemed to me very different from what they 
were before : I would not quit them for a palace. 
One or two new articles of furniture were 
bought by Gretchen who effected a kind of 
quiet revolution in my dusky abode. These are 
my household Gods. 

One of her alterations I must tell you. You 
know my love for light and warmth ; like that 
of an Asiatic long exiled in a Northern country, 
whose calenture is not of green fields but of 
sufficient heat and light once more to bathe in. 
Well, Gretchen soon found out my likings ; and 
this was one of her plans to gratify me and make 
me well. My principal room has a window to 
the South-West, a bay-window or rather a 
window in a bayed recess. After ascertaining 
as well as she could from Peter, what were the 
limits throughout the year of the sun's appear- 
ance on the walls of this recess, on a sudden one 
morning, Gretchen came in with a workman 
and two antique looking glasses of the proper 
size, which (a present of her own, and taxing her 
resources highly) she fixed one on each side of 



[ J 39 ] 

the recess, from whence they have ever since 
thrown a reflected light into the room, which 
makes it feel at times uncomfortable like an ill- 
dressed person in great company. It is a trifling 
thing to mention to you, but very characteristic 
of her. 

I have said nothing to yon, Milverton, which 
can describe herself; and, indeed, I always look 
upon all descriptions of women, in books and 
elsewhere, as having something mean, poor, and 
sensuous about them. I may tell you that she 
always, from the first time I saw her, reminded 
me a little of the bust of Cicero. She had the 
same delicate critical look, though she was what 
you would call a great large girl. She might 
have been a daughter of his, if he had married, 
what he would have called, a barbarian German 
woman. In nature, she has often recalled to me 
Jeannie Deans, only that she has more tender- 
ness. She would have spoken falsely (I am 
sorry to say) for Effie ; and would have died 
of it. 

Lady E. when she was over here some little 
time ago, said to me, to comfort me, I suppose, 
that though Gretchen was a sweet girl, she did 
not quite see what there was in her to make 
her so attractive to a man like me. But these 



• [ 140 ] 

women do not always exactly understand one 
another, or appreciate what makes them dear to 
particular men. She added, ' but still I do not 
know how it was, Gretchen became the great 
authority in our household : they all referred to 
her about everything, and she did a good deal of 
their work.' In fact, she was the personification 
of common sense ; only that what we mean by 
common sense is apt to be hard, overwise, and 
disagreeable : hers was the common sense of 
a romantic person and of one who had great 
perception of the humorous. I think I hear her 
low, ]ong-continued, dimpling laugh as I used to 
put forth some of my odd theories about men 
and things, to hear what she would say. And 
she generally did say something fully to the 
purpose. But action was her forte. There was 
a noiseless, soft activity about her like that of 

light, 

Milverton. You speak of her as if she were 
dead. Is it so ? 

Ellesmere. No: much the same thing — mar- 
ried. There was an opportunity for advancing 
her lover. It was done, not without my know- 
ledge. She had by this time saved some money. 
They were married six months ago. I sent the 
wedding gown. Do not let us talk any more 



[ 141 ] 

about it. I tell it you to show you how deeply 
I care about your subject; for sometimes I think 
with terror, as I go along the streets, that but 
for my providential interference, Gretchen might 
have been like one of those tawdry girls who pass 
by me. Yes, she might. I observed that she had 
a pure horror of debt : and I do not know that 
circumstances might not have been too strong 
for her virtue. For by nature virtuous, if ever 
woman was, she was. 

Ellesmere was silent for a few minutes. Then 
he said, Let us have no more of this talk to-day, 
or, indeed, at any time, unless I should begin the 
subject. One of the greatest drawbacks upon 
making any confidence is that, as regards that 
topic, you have then lost the royal privilege of 
beginning the discourse about yourself; and 
another can begin to speak to you, or to think, 
(and you know that he is thinking) about the 
matter, when you do not wish it to be so much 
as thought of by any one. 

He then began to speak about some chemical 
experiments which he wanted me to try; and 
from that went on to talk about infusoria, wish- 
ing me to undertake some microscopical inves- 
tigations to confirm, or disprove, a certain theory 
of his; adding by way of inducement, ( these 



[ *4* ] 

lower forms and orders of life ought, yon know, 
to be very interesting to people in tlie country, 
who themselves in comparison with us, the in- 
habitants of towns, can only, by courtesy, and 
for want of more precise and accurate language, 
be said to live. In fact, their existence is entirely 
molluscous.' Thus, in his usual jeering way, 
he concluded a walk which left me with matter 
for meditation for many a solitary ramble over 
the downs which we then traversed on our way 
homewards. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

T is not often in the course of our lives, espe- 
cially after we have passed our nonage, that 
we can reckon upon being thoroughly undis- 
turbed and free to think of what we like for a 
given time. It is one of the advantages of tra- 
velling in a carriage alone, that it affords an 
admirable opportunity for thinking. The trees, 
the houses, the farm-yards, the woods flit by, and 
form a sort of silent chorus from the outward 
world. There is a sense of power in overcoming 
distance at no expense of muscular exertion of 
one's own, which is not without an elevating 
and inspiriting influence upon the thoughts. 
The first thing, however, is, that we are pretty 
nearly sure of being undisturbed. The noise 
around us is a measured one, and is accounted 
for; it does not, therefore, fret the most nervous 
person. Dr. Johnson thought that travelling in 
a post-chaise with a pretty woman was one of 



[ *44 ] 

the highest delights in life. Very ungallantly 
I venture to suggest that the pretty woman had 
better be omitted. She will talk sometimes, and 
break the whole charm, thus preventing you 
even from thinking about her. 

Having such notions of the high merits apper- 
taining to the inside of a post-chaise in motion; 
in fact, considering it a place which, for the 
research of truth, may be put in competition 
with the groves of Academus; it was with 
some pleasure that T found myself alone in the 
carriage which had conveyed Ellesmere to the 
neighbouring railway station on his return to 
town. It was the first time since our walk to 
the downs that I had had to myself, and been 
able to think over all that he had then told me. 
He was right in saying that his story bore close 
reference to the subject I have been considering. 
That such a man should find so much to attach 
himself to in this poor German girl, who might 
so easily have been found in a very different 
situation, makes one think with dismay how some 
of the sweetest and highest natures amongst 
women may be in the ranks of those who are 
abandoned to the rude address of the coarsest 
and vilest of men. I say 6 some of the sweetest 
and highest natures,' for there is a cultivation 



[ 145 ] 

in women quite independent of literary culture, 
rank, and otlier advantages. They are more on 
a level with each other than men. I do not 
reckon this as a proof of their excellence; nor 
do I at all indulge in the fancy that there is 
something so peculiarly charming in uncultivated 
people. On the contrary, they are seldom just, 
seldom tolerant; and, as regards innocence and 
child-like nature, these merits abound in persons 
the most cultivated, and even the most con- 
versant with the world. I have no doubt we 
all appear simple a'nd unsophisticated enough 
to superior beings. It is not, therefore, that I 
mean to laud the innocence and naivete of igno- 
rance : but only to point out that there is a 
certain platform, as it were, of grace and un- 
selfishness; of tact, delicacy and teachableness, 
on which I have no doubt an immense number of 
women are placed, which makes any corruption of 
such high capabilities the more to be regretted. 

Dunsford, in his Friends in Council, has 
failed in representing Ellesmere, if he has not 
shown him to be a most accomplished man and 
a thorough gentleman, not exactly the conven- 
tional gentleman, but a man whom savages would 
certainly take to be a chief in his own country, 

L 



[ H6 ] 

showing high courtesy to others with a sort of 
coolness as regards himself, the result of being 
free from many of the usual small shames, petty 
ends, trivial vanities, and masked social opera- 
tions which dwarf men in their intercourse with 
others, or make them like clowns daubed over in 
ugly patches. His pursuits, as may have been 
seen, are on a larger sphere than those of most 
lawyers. "Very observant, too, of the world, I 
have scarcely a doubt he was right in his high 
appreciation of that girl's character. 

We sometimes think we have no romance 
left; but with all our borrowed ways of think- 
ing, our foolish imitative habits, our estimations 
grosser than those of Portia's disappointed 
suitors, some of us occasionally do still look at 
things and people as they are. And that alone 
produces romance enough. 

I wonder whether Gretchen had any love for 
him ! Alas, I suspect, from a fond wistful way 
in which I once saw Lucy look at him, that 
there is an English girl who would mightily 
like to occupy Gretchen's place in his heart. 
But he casts not a thought at her : such is the 
perversity of things. 

But I must turn from thinking about Elles- 



[ 147 ] 

mere to the consideration of my subject, which 
is favoured by this quiet moment and this retired, 
spot. It seems to me that the best thing I can 
do will be, not so much to seek for new argu- 
ments and new views, as to strengthen and en- 
lighten those already put forward in a preceding 
chapter. 

I spoke, for instance, there of the cause that 
poverty was of this sin. Now women do not 
equally partake with men in the general poverty 
in a land, but they have to endure an undue 
proportion of it, by reason of many employ- 
ments being closed to them, so that the sex 
which, is least able and least fitted to seek 
for employment by going from home, finds the 
means of employment at home most circum- 
scribed. 

I cannot but think that this is a mismanage- 
ment which has proceeded, like many others, 
from a wrong appreciation of women's powers. 
If they were told that they could do many more 
things than they do, they would do them. As 
at present educated, they are, for the most part, 
thoroughly deficient in method. But this surely 
might be remedied by training. To take a very 
humble and simple instance. Why is it that a 
man-cook is always better than a woman-cook 1 



[ 148 ] 

Simply because a man is more methodical in his 
arrangements, and relies more upon his weights 
and measures. An eminent physician told me, 
that he thought that women were absolutely 
deficient in the appreciation of time. But this 
I hold to be merely one instance of their general 
want of accuracy, for which there are easy 
remedies, that is, easy if begun early enough. 
Now it does seem perfectly ludicrous that in the 
dispensing of women's gear they should need the 
intervention of men. I dare say there is some 
good reason for the present practice, some advan- 
tage gained; but I should think it likely that 
this advantage would be far more than counter- 
balanced by the advantage of employing women 
altogether in these transactions. 

Again, in the processes of the arts, and in 
many ways which I have not time or space to 
enter upon, women might be provided with new 
sources of employment, if they were properly 
trained. 

But the truth is, there is a great want of in- 
genuity and arrangement throughout the world 
in not providing employment for its unem- 
ployed, both men and women. Things that 
imperatively want to be done, stare you in the 
face at every corner. 



[ x 49 ] 

If we consider the nature of the intellect of 
women, we really can see no reason for the re- 
strictions laid upon them in the choice of em- 
ployments. They possess talents of all kinds. 
Government to be sure is a thing not fit for 
them, their fond prejudices coming often in the 
way of justice. Direction also they would 
want, not having the same power, I think, of 
imagination that men have, nor the same me- 
thod, as I observed before. But how well 
women might work under direction. In how 
many ways where tact and order alone are 
required, they might be employed : and also 
in how many higher ways where talent is re- 
quired. 

I suppose I shall have to say something about 
unhappy marriages as a cause of the evil I have 
named as the great sin of great cities. Of course 
there are a great many unhappy marriages. A 
weighty moral writer of the present day inti- 
mates that there is no medium in the felicity, 
or infelicity, of marriage, that it is either the 
summit of joy or the depth of torment. I ven- 
ture to differ from him in this respect. On the 
contrary, it seems to me probable that in mar- 
riage the whole diapason of joy and sorrow is 



[ x 5° ] 

sounded, from perfect congeniality, if there be 
such a thing, (which I doubt) to the uttermost 
extent of irritable uncongeniality. 

How this may be I know not, but though 
unhappiness in marriage may form some justifi- 
cation of, or at least some explanation for, other 
connections more or less permanent, yet I con- 
tend no want of domestic love or peace can 
justify the particular sin which is the subject of 
our present theme. 

At the same time I am far from pronouncing 
that the law of divorce may not require consider- 
able modification ; but really there are so many 
large questions to deal with in reference to this 
present subject, that I feel I cannot presume to 
enter upon this one of divorce, to discuss which 
properly would require any one man's life. I 
cannot, however, omit all allusion to it, as it has 
undoubted reference to the subject in hand ; 
and I may remark that it is a great deal easier 
to pass by Milton, or to sneer at him, for his 
great work on The Doctrine and Discipline of 
Divorce, than to answer the arguments therein 
contained. The truth is, that there is scarcely 
any where a mind sufficiently free from the 
overruling influence of authority on these and 



[ iSi ] 

similar subjects to be able clearly and boldly to 
apprehend the question for itself. 

However it does not become us to pronounce, 
if we are to judge from the results only, that 
our present notions of marriage are the best 
possible. I can imagine a native of some country 
where polygamy is practised, contending that 
the state of things in his own country in this 
respect is preferable to that in ours, not, per- 
haps, as producing less misery, but at any rate 
less dishonour both to men and women. We 
should find it difficult to gainsay him in this, as 
of course he would make much of the immense 
and obvious evils of the sin we have been con- 
sidering. 

The greatest and most dangerous objection, I 
should rather say assertion, which will be made 
against anything that has been said in this chap- 
ter and the two preceding ones, is one that will 
be uttered with a derisive smile by men of the 
world, as they are called, that is of a very 
small section of it. Thinking they are deeply 
cognizant of the human heart, because they 
are very much afraid of its aberrations, and 
that they are fully aware of the powers of the 



[ *$* ] 

imagination, from having little themselves and 
discouraging the little they ever had — lapped, 
perhaps, in a kind of prosperity which singularly 
blinds those who have the misfortune to enjoy 
an uninterrupted career of it — bounded by a 
small circle of equally well-conditioned, self- 
satisfied individuals — men of this kind pronounce 
not only upon the influx and efflux of tea, coffee, 
sugar and gold, (in which by the way their dicta 
are generally wrong) but they are also able 
specifically to declare about the ebb and flow of 
the passions or the affections ; about the tenderest 
and the most delicate of the relations in human 
life. Talk to any man of this worldly class 
about moral causes, or religious influences, he is 
equally at home with them, as if you were to 
ask him about the subjects most ' immersed in 
matter.' I can see the self-sufficient way in 
which if he had lived some seven hundred years 
ago, after the first crusade, he would have pro- 
nounced with a wave of his hand after dinner, 
that there never could be such another adventure 
again, as the first had by no means been found to 
pay. But soon all Europe is listening to the 
clink of hammers upon harness, and thousands, 
hundreds of thousands, are repeating an ad- 
venture not good in a commercial sense, but 



[ *53 ] 

still which gave a dignity to thein such as the 
stayers at home never attained. 

Having damaged, as much as I can, the ima- 
ginary opponents who I know, however, will 
prove real ones, before I bring their saying into 
presence, I will now tell what that saying will 
assuredly be. 

In answer to all that has been urged in the 
way of remedy for this evil, they will simply 
reply 'But these things always must be, the 
laws of supply and demand hold good in this 
case as in others ; to think otherwise is the 
mere dream of writers and other ideologists : no 
wonder Napoleon disliked such people, we do too.' 

To this, taking them on their own ground, I 
would reply that at any rate the force of cir- 
cumstances (a phrase they delight in) may be so 
adapted and modified as only to meet the exact 
necessities of the case. I mean, for instance, 
that those by nature most inclined to innocence 
should have the fairest opportunities of remaining 
innocent, that in short it should be the worst 
people that fell into the worst ways. This of course 
is only an ideal scheme too, but there might, 
however, be a practical tendency in that direction. 

In reality, however, it is the greatest mistake 
to suppose that such laws of supply and demand 



[ iS4 ] 

are not overruled by much higher influences. 
All things depend for their ultimate aim and 
end on the spirit in which they are undertaken, 
which spirit cannot well be concealed. The 
measured generosity of mean people, whose gifts 
are all strictly related to duty, does not deceive 
others ; the bystander knows that these people 
are not generous, though he cannot exactly 
confute them from their words or their deeds. 
Again, people may pretend to be religious, but 
if the real spirit is not in them, its absence is 
soon felt. 1 am merely giving these as instances 
of the deficiency of the right spirit being felt, 
or perceived, even when the outward deeds or 
words are there. But the spirit which results 
from conviction, and which gradually modifies 
public opinion, is one of the most powerful 
things known : who shall put limits to it ? It 
will meet and occasionally master all the pas- 
sions. Take the question of duelling, for in- 
stance; if you could have told a man of former 
times, when duelling was rife, that it would 
soon be almost done away with, ' What !' he 
would have exclaimed, ' will there be no lovers, 
no jealous husbands, no walls to take the inner 
side of, no rudeness, no drunkenness, no calumny, 
no slander i And, if there are, how will the 



[ m ] 

quarrels that must arise from these things be 
adjusted? Do not talk such Utopian nonsense 
to me, but come and let us practise in the shoot- 
ing gallery.' And, yet, see how stealthily, how 
unassumingly, how completely, public opinion, 
the result of a wise and good spirit gradually 
infused into men, has disarmed duellism, as 
quietly, in fact, as the king's guard in former 
days would have taken away the weapons of any 
two presumptuous gentlemen who brought their 
quarrelling too near his Majesty's vicinity in 
his parks. 

One of the kind of reproaches that will ever 
be made with much, or little, justice, (generally 
with little justice) against any men who endea- 
vour to reform or improve anything, is that 
they are not ready with definite propositions, 
that they are like the Chorus in a Greek play, 
making general remarks about nature and hu- 
man affairs, without suggesting any clear and 
decided course to be taken. Sometimes this 
reproach is just, but very often, on the other 
hand, it is utterly unreasonable. Frequently 
the course to be taken in each individual in- 
stance is one that it would be almost impossible 
to decide, still more to lay down with minute- 



[ 156 ] 

nesSj without a knowledge of the facts in the 
particular instance : whereas what is wanted is 
not to suggest a course of action, but a habit of 
thought which will modify not one or two 
actions only, but all actions that come within 
the scope of that thought. 

Again, there are people who are not so un- 
reasonable as to expect suggestions that will 
exactly meet their own individual cases, but still 
they wish for general rules or general propositions 
to be laid down. There must be instant legis- 
lation to please them, something visibly done. 
And often it is needful that something should be 
done, which however falls, perhaps, under the 
functions of other men than the original social 
reformers. There is always such a belief in 
what is mechanical, that men of ordinary minds 
cannot assure themselves that anything is done, 
unless something palpable is before them, unless 
they can refer to a legislative act, or unless there 
is a building, an institution, a newspaper, or 
some visible thing, which illustrates the prin- 
ciple. But in reality the first thing is to get people 
to be of the same mind as regards social evils. 
When once they are of this mind, the evils will 
soon disappear. A wise conviction is like light ; 
it gradually dawns upon a few minds, but a 



[ 157 ] 

slight mist rises also with this rise of light ; as 
the day goes on and the light rises higher, spreads 
further, and is more intense, growth of all kinds 
takes place silently and without great demon- 
stration of any kind. This light permeates, 
colours, and enlarges all it shines upon. 

Now, to apply some of these thoughts to our 
present subject. I do not believe that there will 
always be a certain set amount of wrong-doing 
in this or in any other case. On the other hand, 
I do not expect that people will suddenly rush 
into virtue. To take a very humble instance, 
the suppression of smoke, one of the most visible 
evils in the world, how long a time it takes to 
subdue that. From Count Eumford's time to 
the present day, how many persons have written, 
preached, talked, experimented, on the subject. 
And if this long process has to take place in so 
obvious a matter, how much more must it be so 
in the subtler regions of men's minds, in their 
habits of justice, or of forethought. But, insen- 
sibly, even in these dim and remote regions, 
good counsels, or evil counsels, will eventually 
prevail — as quietly, perhaps, but as surely, as 
the submerged coral rock grows and increases 
from the accumulations of minute, gelatinous, 
molluscous creatures. 



i 158 ]- 

The train of thought which I have described 
above, did not of course occur to me in the me- 
thodical way in which I have now put it down, 
but with frequent breaks and interruptions both 
from internal thoughts and the aspect of external 
objects. Now it was the noise of the mill, now 
the beauty of some homestead, now the neatness 
of some well-cultivated field, or the richness of 
some full farm-yard that claimed my attention. 
But when I had finished thinking of the answer 
that must be given to that worldly objection 
' that there is a demand for wickedness and that 
there must be a supply of it,' I leaned back 
in the carriage and turned my mind to other 
branches of the subject. Just at that time, 
whether it was that a troop of little children 
came out of a school-house close to the road, or 
that I noticed the early budding in the hedge- 
rows, as I passed along, I began to think of what 
had been alluded to in a former chapter, namely, 
what a beautiful thing youth is, and how sad 
that it should be spoilt at its outset. And I 
went on to think not only of the negative, that 
is, of the loss of so much beautiful life and pro- 
mise, but of the positive misery inflicted, which 
surely is well worth taking into consideration. 



[ 159 ] 
Tragedy is very grand, with grand accessories, 

' Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line, 
Or the Tale of Troy divine/ 

when a purple-clad man, free from all the petti- 
nesses of life, pours out a strain of sorrow which 
melts all hearts, and goes some way to dignify 
the sufferings of all humanity. But, after all, 
in some squalid den, as great if not a greater 
tragedy is often transacted, only without the 
scenery and decorations of the other, when some 
poor victim of seduction, now steeped in misery 
and sunk in the abysses of self- degradation, 
amidst blasphemy, subject to reviling that she 
scarcely hears or easily endures from habit, lies on 
the bed of sickness thinking of her mother's gentle 
assiduities in some of the ailments of her child- 
hood, and covers her face with her hands at the 
thought that that mother, dead, perhaps heart- 
broken, may now, a spirit, be looking down upon 
her. Well might Camoens wonder ' That in so 
small a theatre as that of one poor bed, it should 
please Fortune to represent such great calamities. 
And I too,' he says, ' as if these calamities did 
not suffice, must needs put myself on their side ; 
for to attempt to resist such evils would be some- 
thin £ shameless.' 



[ i6° ] 

I had meditated but a few minutes on this 
cry of anguish, which I seemed to hear as it 
came from the dying bed of one of the most 
unfortunate of men of genius, and which I 
fancied, too, I heard from many other death- 
beds, when we turned out of the main road into 
the lanes which lead to Worth- Ashton. With 
all our pretences at governing or directing our 
thoughts, how they lie at the mercy of the 
merest accident ! Once in these lanes I quitted 
my subject, and began to think how the way to 
my house might be shortened, and I was already 
deep in the engineering difficulties of the pro- 
ceeding, when, somewhat satirically I said to 
myself, what a mania you have for improving 
everything about you : could you not, my dear 
Leonard, spare a little of this reforming energy 
for yourself? One would think that you did 
not need it at all to see the way you go on 
writing moral essays. Myself replied to me, 
this is a very spiteful remark of yours, and very 
like what Ellesmere would have said. Have I 
not always protested in the strongest manner 
against the assumption, that a writer of moral 
essays must be a moral man himself? Your 
friend Ellesmere, in reference to this very point, 



[ i6i J 

remarks tliat if all clergymen had been Chris- 
tians, there would by this time have been no 
science of theology. But, jesting apart, it would 
be a sad thing indeed if one's ideal was never 
to go beyond one's own infirmities. However, 
myself agrees with you, my dear I, so far, that 
it is much safer to be thought worse than better 
than one really is : and so blacken me as much 
as you like and detract from me as much as you 
can, so that you do not injure my arguments or 
my persuasions. These I believe in, and will 
endeavour to carry out, just as if they had been 
uttered by the most irreproachable and perfect 
man in the world. 

Maintaining this strange dialogue as stoutly 
as if there had been two persons instead of one 
in the carriage, I, or rather we, (I wonder 
whether the editorial 'we' is thus really dual, 
consisting of a man and his conscience) we, I 
say, reached the gate of Worth-Ashton, pretty 
good friends with each other, and pleased with 
what we had thought over during our ride 
homewards. 



M 



CHAPTER IX 

SINCE giving an account of my last reverie, 
I have been abroad for a short time, which 
has a little interrupted my work, but I now 
resume it with less feeling of weariness. I 
seldom think much during a tour. Indeed I 
come out to avoid thinking. I do not come to 
see what can be said or thought about any place, 
but to see it. Nevertheless, occasionally, I 
make a few notes consisting of some disjointed 
words, sufficient to recall to me, and to me only, 
what where the things which made an impression 
upon me. 

One scene of this last journey I find comme- 
morated in this short way; and, as it is con- 
nected with some thoughts which carry on the 
subjects we (my readers and I) have lately been 
considering, I will recall it. 

I shall not tell with any preciseness where I 
was: for if I did so, and did it well, my coun- 
trymen would flock to see the place. Not that 



[ i63 ] 

I grudge them seeing anything. I suppose it 
happens to many of us, when abroad, to feel a 
little ashamed now and then of these same 
countrymen ; but yet I often think with pleasure 
that even the most coarse and obtuse traveller 
brings back something besides self-conceit. One 
regrets that such opportunities are not always 
bestowed on minds fully able to profit by them; 
but still one hopes that the most uncultivated 
people cannot escape getting some little advan- 
tage from their travels; and if they were to 
stay at home, they would not the less remain 
uncultivated people. 

Such travellers, however, would not thank 
me at all for describing a place which might 
thus get into the guide-books, and then, alas ! 
form one more spot which they must stop to 
look at, while they would far rather scamper 
over more ground and see more well-known 
places with great names. And as for the people 
who see things for themselves, they will not pass 
by the spot in question without giving it a due 
regard. 

And what a scene it is ! Across a wide ex- 
tent of water lies a bridge of immense length 
formed of uneven planks supported upon piles. 
There is no railing to the bridge, so that you 



[ i«4 ] 

seem almost upon the water, and you have the 
sensation of being at sea, with the grandeur and 
without the misery, as it is to me, of such a 
situation. Here and there is an oratory out- 
jutting from the line of planks, with a narrow 
edging of stone round it. 

It was evening when I came upon the bridge, 
but not so late as to prevent me from seeing 
well the country about me which at intervals 
went down into the water in narrow tongues of 
land, with buildings upon them. Immediately 
on the heights above me were an old tower and 
a monastery. Near the land some giant reeds 
rose up from the water, but did not sway to and 
fro the least, for there was not a breath of wind. 
The only noise was a plash of the water against 
a jetty or the occasional jumping of a fish. On 
one of the strange looking rocks there, which 
come abruptly out of the water as if asking you 
a question from the deep, reposed a meditative 
crane standing upon one leg. 

On one side of the bridge the hills rise up 
around you evenly and the mountains are well 
balanced in form : on the other side, they descend 
abruptly and ascend again, leaving a most pic- 
turesque gorge. Two poplars were to be seen on 
the lowland near this gorge. 



[ i«5 ] 

As evening deejDened, and no more peasants 
returning homeward from the other side, saluted 
me with their Good night, the houses on the 
surrounding hills showed like glow-worms, and all 
was still, save the plash of the water on the jetty. 

I find that new places do not always bring 
new thoughts : sometimes they only intensify 
those which one has thought before. My mind 
went back to what is held by many persons to 
be a most prosaic subject — namely, education. 
And I thought how education, to be of any 
assured worth, must continue throughout life. 
'Now, Sir, that your education is ended,' ex- 
claims the parent or the guardian, to many a 
young man whose education, in the highest sense 
of the word, is now about to begin. This is the 
mistake that we make, too, about the poor. 
Heading and writing will not do alone. You 
might as well prepare for a liberal hospitality by 
a good apparatus for roasting and boiling, but 
never putting on any viands, so that the kitchen 
machinery went on grinding unceasingly, with 
no contentment to the appetites of the hungry. 
No : before we shall be able to make much of 
education, the highest amongst us must take 
larger views of it, and not suppose that it is a 
mere definite quantity of cultivation — defined 



[ ^6 ] 

according to the narrow limits of the fashions 
of the day. 

If we saw this clearly, we should not be so 
anxious to succeed at college, at the bar, in par- 
liament, in literature, or in any one art and 
science. We should perceive that there was a 
certain greatness of nature and acquirement to 
be aimed at, which we would not sacrifice to any 
one pursuit, worldly or artistic. 

I stayed no longer on the bridge, but, ascend- 
ing from it, made my way to a church which 
stood on the height close to the old tower. I 
marked in the light of the moon the slight, 
graceful, fantastic crosses in iron-work, telling, 
that a peaceful population slept beside me; and 
I sat down upon a low, broad stone wall. Thence 
you might see the wide waters and some houses 
whose shadows lay upon the meads which skirted 
the waters. 

'And that is what all their ambition has 
come to,' I muttered to myself, turning to the 
crosses, 

Linquenda tellus, et domus, et placens 
(what an epithet !) 

Uxor ; neque harum, quas colis, arborum, 
Te, j)ra3ter invisas cupressus, 
Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. 



[ i<*7 ] 

These inevitable common-place remarks mostly 
contain the profoundest and the sincerest thought. 
Yes, life may be but a poor business at the best, 
nevertheless, said I to myself, I will try to do 
something yet, if life is spared to me. And so, 
resuming the subject which I had been working 
at before I left home, (namely, the great sin of 
great cities) I began to consider what I should 
conclude by saying, just as if I had been in my 
study at Worth- Ashton. 

My eye wandered over the dark hills, catching 
every now and then the glow-worm light which 
came from some house or cottage perched up 
there. I pictured to myself the daughter of one 
of these homes carried off to some great town, 
soon to be lost there in its squalid suburbs, like 
beautiful, spoilt fruit swept away with garbage 
into the common kennel. The girl, perhaps, is 
much to blame herself, for we must admit that 
the fault is not always on one side, and we must 
not suffer any sickly sentiment to darken truth 
and justice. Yes — she may be much to blame; 
but, surely, the wiser creature, man, is more so. 
Seduction is such a poor transaction. There was 
a time, it was one of the basest times the world 
has ever seen, when seduction was thought a 
fine and clever thing; but now who does not 



[ i« ] 

see that to delude a woman, a creature easily to 
be deluded, especially through its affections, is a 
slight, unworthy transaction, and but for its dire 
consequences, would be ludicrous, like cheating 
a child at cards'? But when you add to this that 
in many a case, desertion follows so rapidly upon 
seduction as almost to appear as if they had 
been planned together, then the smallness of the 
transaction is absolutely lost in the consideration 
of its baseness. 

However, say what we will, there will often 
be seductions; and it would be a great point 
gained, if desertion should be looked upon with 
greater severity. This brings me at once to the 
subject of what are called illegitimate children. 

Now, duties are very often very difficult things 
to apprehend rightly. As everything is ulti- 
mately referred to duty, and as a great many 
things in this world are very dubious, it is 
manifest that duties are often very dubious like- 
wise. There are not only clear, but dim and 
shadowy duties, if I may so express them, which 
are very perplexing, and occupy much of a man's 
time and thought. Often we find that what we 
supposed to be a duty was anything but a duty. 
The great persecutors for opinion have probably 
found that out now; and, indeed, on earth, we 



[ i<5 9 ] 

often discover, that what we supposed to be a 
duty and performed with earnest diligence, was 
a great delusion. Under these circumstances, it 
does seem to me that when we have before us an 
undoubted duty, one of those things which come 
under the axioms of morality, we can hardly lay 
too much stress on the performance of that. It 
is like what we ought to do in our charities, I 
think. Charity is so difficult and perplexed a 
thing, that when a man has got hold of a clearly 
good charity which he can carry out, he had 
better do that thoroughly than dissipate his re- 
sources, mental aud physical, in any efforts of a 
dubious tendency. 

Now, I suppose, there are few things clearer 
to the human mind, 

* to saint, to savage, and to sage, 5 

than that a father owes duties to his child. The 
dullest savages have seen that. Even Lacedae- 
monians, if they put off individual fatherhood, 
only did so by throwing it upon the community. 
How can a man, for a moment, imagine, that 
any difference of rank (a mere earthly arrange- 
ment) between the mother of his child and him- 
self can absolve him from paternal duties? I am 
lost in astonishment at the notion. And then 



[ i7o ] 

imagine a man, performing all manner of minor 
duties, neglecting this first one the while. I 
always fancy that we may be surrounded by 
spiritual powers. 'Now, think what a horrible 
mockery it must seem to them, when they be- 
hold a man going to charity dinners, busying 
himself about flannel for the poor, jabbering 
about education at public meetings, immersed in 
indifferent forms and ceremonies of religion, or 
raging against such things, because it is his duty, 
as he tells you ; and at the door holding a link, 
or perhaps at that moment bringing home the 
produce of small thefts in a neighbouring, 
narrow alley, is his own child, a pinched-up, 
haggard, outcast, cunning-looking little thing. 
Throw down, man, the flannel and the soap and 
the education and the Popery and the Protes- 
tantism; and go up that narrow alley and tend 
your child: do not heap that palpably unjust 
burden on the back of a world which has enough 
at all times of its own to bear. If you cannot 
find your own child, adopt two others in its 
place, and let your care for them be a sort of 
sin-offering. These are indignant words, but not 
more so than is right, I do believe, and I will 
not suppress one of them. 

I am not ignorant of the difficulty of doing as 



[ 17* ] 

I would have a man do in such a case. I do not 
write as a hermit or a clergyman, but as a man 
who thinks he knows something of the world. 
To own to immorality, to have that fair respect- 
ability spotted which we all value so much, and 
which is valuable, is no slight effort. A man 
who would beard a lion in his den, will shrink 
from doing what he ought to do, lest in so doing 
his neighbours should say unpleasant words 
about him behind his back. And yet there 
have been respectable men who have worn beards 
and strange hats which their neighbours did not 
wear, a more daring thing, perhaps, than owning 
to any immorality and endeavouring to repair it. 

There are men who have secretly supported 
the burden of an illegitimate family : these at 
least are far better men than those who have 
joined the world in ignoring the existence of 
those they were bound to know of and to succour. 
Great kings who can afford to set aside conven- 
tionality, before whom 'nice custom curtseys/ 
have boldly taken charge of their illegitimate 
children, and the world has not thought the 
worse of them for that, whatever it may justly 
have thought of the rest of their proceedings. 

Some may reply all this acknowledgment is 
encouragement. I say not. I say it holds be- 



[ J 72 ] 

fore a person those duties, the general forgetful- 
ness of which encourages to immorality. But, 
really, fine questions of general morality ought 
to be of second-rate importance to a man who 
is neglecting his first duties. 

Is it not so J I said, looking round upon the 
thin shadows cast by the crosses over the graves. 
Silent population, (any one of whom, the mean- 
est, could now tell us more, mayhap, than all 
the wise men and doctors of this earth) silent 
population, is it not so? But none answered, 
unless a sigh of the breeze which now stole over 
the church-yard was the expression of one of 
those subtle chords of sympathy, rarely heard, 
still more rarely appreciated, which, perhaps 
bring animate, and what we call inanimate na- 
ture into secret, strange communion. 

I went down again upon the bridge, looked 
up at the solemn sky, for the moon was clouded 
now, and beneath me at the dim waters, being 
able to discern naught else: and still with some 
regard to what I had been thinking of in the 
church-yard, hoped that, in a future state at 
least, we might have some opportunity of loving 
and making our peace with those whom we have 
wronged here, and of seeing that our wrong, 



[ *73 ] 

overruled by infinite goodness, has not wrought 
all the injury which there was in it to do. 

So I walked on, having those dim apprehen- 
sions and undefined feelings which are yet, per- 
haps, the unfashioned substance of our sincerest 
and most exact afterthought, until darkness and 
the cold and the thought of to-morrow's journey 
drove me homeward — the home so emblematical 
for man in his pilgrimage — the home of an inn. 



CHAPTER X. 

SO varied, extensive and pervading are human 
distresses, sorrows, short-comings, miseries 
and misadventures, that a chapter of aid or con- 
solation never comes amiss, I think. There is 
a pitiless, pelting rain this morning; heavily 
against my study windows drives the south- 
western gale; and altogether it is a very fit 
day for working at such a chapter. The in-door 
comforts which enable one to resist with com- 
posure, nay even to welcome, this outward con- 
flict and hubbub, are like the plans and resources 
provided by philosophy and religion, to meet the 
various calamities driven against the soul in its 
passage through this stormy world. The books 
which surround me have been found an equal 
resource in both respects, both against the wea- 
ther from without and from within, against 
physical and mental storms : and, if it might be 
so, I would pass on to others the comfort which 
a seasonable word has often brought to me. 



[ 175 ] 

If I were to look round these shelves, what a 
host of well-loved names would rise up, as those 
who have said brave or wise words to comfort 
and aid their brethren in adversity. It seems as 
if little remained to be said; but in truth there 
is always waste land in the human heart to be 
tilled. 

The first thing which occurs to me, is, that 
in bearing misfortune and vexation, as in over- 
coming temptation, there is a certain confidence 
w T hich had better be put aside. This confidence 
sometimes results from a faith in reason, or rather 
a faith in our being exactly amenable to reason. 
For instance, it is some time before a man ceases 
to have a full belief in his own powers of accom- 
plishing by direct means the absolute rule in his 
mind. If he is convinced of a thing, he says to 
himself, of course he will act accordingly. It 
'astonishes him to hear of men — great men — who 
could not overcome, or found the greatest diffi- 
culty in overcoming, some small habit. Indeed, 
according to his brave imaginings, he intends 
always to overcome terrors and temptations, not 
merely to avoid them. Such is a very juvenile 
though a very natural mode of thinking. It 
requires a good many fallings in the mire, before 
a man finds that his own mind, temperament and 



[ if6 ] 

faculties, are things which will give him as much 
or more trouble to manage, than his affairs, or 
his family, or, than the whole world besides. 

But as a man learns certain rules of health, so 
that it is said that at forty he is either a fool or 
a physician, so again, in dealing with the affec- 
tions of the mind, there comes a skill which is 
not to be despised: and a man finds that the 
evil he cannot master he can ignore, the care he 
cannot efface he can elude, the felicity he cannot 
accomplish he can weigh and understand, and 
so reduce it from the size it would occupy in his 
imagination to its proper and reasonable limits. 
At last even sensitive people learn to suffer less 
from sensitiveness ; not that it grows dull by age, 
but that they learn to manage it better. 

As a sound preparation for consolation of 
various kinds, I would begin, not by wilfully 
magnifying evils, but by showing their true pro- 
portions, which no doubt makes them seem larger 
than the imagination of the young, mistaught 
by many unsound fictions, pictures them to be. 
But nothing can be better than the truth. In 
its hand are all earthly and all heavenly consola- 
tions. As an instance of what I mean, there is a 
common fancy that an untoward event generally 
comes and goes, with considerable rapidity — 



[ m ] 

and there an end; whereas it is very often a 
long-continued process. You do not fall sheer 
down a precipice, but go tumbling by degrees, 
drinking in the full measure of danger and 
horror, catching at bushes here and there, now 
imagining for a moment that you have found 
security on some projecting ledge; and then 
finding the ground crumbling under you: and 
so you fall onwards till you reach the lowest 
level. The above is rather a strong image, but 
it may convey what I intend. 

To illustrate it in practice — most men who 
have lived any time in the world, unless they 
have been the very minions of fortune, in which 
case, by the way, they are not much to be envied, 
have vexations of considerable standing — long 
lawsuits, disastrous adventures, an ill-conducted 
child, or some other terrible relative, a deplo- 
rable shame, often such a mingled tissue of fault 
and misfortune, that they cannot pity themselves 
sufficiently for blame at their folly; and they 
return from thinking over the folly to grieving 
over the ill-luck (as they call it) which brought 
out the folly so remarkably on that particular 
occasion. 

Such a course of things requiring time for its 
developement, can hardly fail to exercise in vexa- 

isr 



[ ^78 ] 

tion all the moods and faculties of a man. A 
statesman does not perhaps work, intellectually 
speaking, harder than a lawyer in great practice ; 
but the cares of the latter are cares which begin 
and end with the day; not long lines of policy 
which require time and protracted care on one 
subject to work out, and where failure often 
comes by slow degrees. 

ISTow, then, for the attempt at aid or consola- 
tion in such a case. Suppose the course of 
events I have spoken of to be one of failure and 
vexation — realized, or about to be so, to use an 
American phrase, and a very good one. A wise 
man (but that word ' wise' is hardly a fit adjec- 
tive to put before ' man,' it would be better to 
say, a man well-read in the heart,) sees when he 
has suffered enough from these lengthened trains 
of evil, when he has exhausted the instruction 
from them; and, though from time to time he 
may revert to them, as new views or new cir- 
cumstances occur, enabling him to look down 
from a fresh height, as it were, on these long 
dreary, disastrous passages of his life, yet he' 
resolves substantially to have done with them; 
and, when he finds them invading his mind and 
memory, adroitly he contrives at once to occupy 
it with something else. 



[ i79 ] 

With his wisdom of this world, Napoleon, no 
doubt, took care not to let his Russian campaign 
press fatally upon his recollections. 

Another way for a man in such a case is to 
quote these disasters fearlessly to himself, and 
sometimes to others, as dear-bought bits of expe- 
rience, now possessions : bought, it is true, at a 
most extravagant price, but still a little pro- 
perty, far better than nothing. 

There is great humility in such plans as the 
above: the man who adopts them has found out, 
or at least he thoroughly suspects, his own weak- 
ness, and is willing to avail himself of any fair 
advantage to fight with the numerous enemies 
that surround him. Like a wise commander, he 
looks about for the slightest rising ground. 

The same adroitness and practical wisdom 
may be manifested, not only in thought but 
in action. A friend of mine who had to attend 
a series of interviews, in which business was 
discussed of much vexation to him, and where he 
had to undergo, justly, much contumely, disco- 
vered that the occasions when he gave way to 
temper and behaved unwisely, were those in 
which he rode on a tiresome horse to the place of 
business. This is very natural : his nerves were a 
little ruffled in managing the unruly quadruped; 



[ i8o ] 

his powers a little impaired; his composure 
slightly broken through to begin with: and, 
where things are nicely balanced, this slight dis- 
turbance of equanimity might turn the scale. 
Afterwards, he took care to go to the place 
of these interviews always in the easiest manner, 
and noted the good effect of this change. How 
trivial such an anecdote will seem, except to 
those who know the world well, and have seen 
how important small things may be when they 
happen to be brought into the same narrow 
compass of affairs with great ones. 

But, now to pass to other subjects of human 
distress, and first among them, to all that is 
suffered from obloquy. 

In bearing obloquy, it may be noted by way 
of consolation, that the world is always correct- 
ing its opinions ; that, except amongst your par- 
ticular friends and relations, who have, perhaps, 
taken up a most erroneous view of your charac- 
ter ; and, in the pride of a little knowledge, will 
never let it go; the general body of opinion 
is very fluent, and, at last, everything has a 
hearing. I have a private suspicion of my own, 
that some of those Koman Emperors we read of, 
have been maligned a little. Somebody else 
perhaps has the same notion; if it is a just one, 



[ i8i ] 

it will yet be investigated, and what there is true 
in it be sifted out. 

It is certainly a long time to wait, for ages, to 
have an unjust opinion of you corrected; but if 
fame is worth anything at all, then there is a 
consolation in thinking that eventually you have 
a chance of being fairly dealt with. 

By way of comfort in bearing calumny, it may 
be observed that calumny does not originate in 
the way ordinarily supposed ; that there is rarely 
any such thing as a system of active, well-regu- 
lated, well-aimed calumny, arising out of malice 
prepense; but that far more often it has its 
source in honest ignorance, mean-mindedness, or 
absolute mistake. It is to be viewed, therefore, 
in the light of a misfortune rather than in that 
of a persecution. 

Any man of many transactions can hardly 
expect to go through life without being subject 
to one or two very severe calumnies. Amongst 
these many transactions, some few will be with 
very ill-conditioned people, with very ignorant 
people, or perhaps with monomaniacs (and much 
less account is taken of them than ought to be) 
and he cannot expect, therefore, but that some 
narrative of a calumnious kind will have its 
origin in one of these transactions. It may then 



[ i32 ] 

be fanned by any accidental breeze of malice or 
ill-fortune, and become a very serious element of 
mischief to him. Such a thing is to be looked 
upon as pure misfortune coming in the ordinary 
course of events ; and the way of treating it, is 
to deal with it as calmly and philosophically as 
with any other misfortune. As some one has 
said, the mud will rub off when it is dry and not 
before. The drying will not always come in the 
calumniated man's time, unless in favourable 
seasons, which he cannot command. It is not 
wise, however, to be very impatient to justify 
one's self; and, altogether, too much stress should 
not be laid upon calumny by the calumniated, 
else their serious work will be for ever inter- 
rupted; and they should remember that it is not 
so much their business to explain to others all 
they do, as to be sure that it will bear explana- 
tion and satisfy themselves. 

When I was in the habit of seeing something 
of official life, I used to wonder that a great de- 
partment suffered itself to be calumniated, and 
made no sign ; but older and wiser heads than 
mine soon convinced me that their business did 
not admit of their confuting every idle and 
erroneous statement that was made about them, 
and that they were mainly to answer to those 



[ i83 ] 

persons who had authority to question them. 
The same judicious maxim applies also to private 
life. 

Not far removed from calumny, and often 
leading up to it ; is injurious comment on people's 
conduct, which when addressed or repeated to 
them, or imagined by them, is apt to vex them 
sorely. But really if it were considered how 
utterly incompetent men are to talk of the con- 
duct of others, as they do, the talkers would 
often be silenced at once, and the sufferers as 
readily consoled. In the first place how imper- 
fect is our knowledge of our neighbour's circum- 
stances. You suppose a man rich, and he is 
poor ; or rich, but with perils, claims, and respon- 
sibilities of which you know nothing; you sup- 
pose him healthy, and he is tortured by some 
internal disease; you suppose him unhappy in 
his domestic relations, and he is most felicitous ; 
or, on the other hand, you suppose him lapped in 
the loving regards of his family, and all the while 
he has a wretched, contentious home; you sup- 
pose him a man of leisure, and he is cumbered 
with cares, duties, labours and endeavours, of 
which you have not the slightest conception — 
what is your comment on this man's conduct 



[ i8 4 ] 

worth? Then if we observe the difference of 
men's natures, and consider the want of imagina- 
tion in most men which confines them to the just 
appreciation of those natures only which are like 
their own, how much this complicates the ques- 
tion. Probably the difference of temperament 
amongst men is as great as that amongst the 
different species of animals — as between that, for 
instance, of the lively squirrel and the solemn 
crane. Now, if only from this difference between 
them, the squirrel would be a bad judge of the 
felicity, or generosity, or the domestic conduct, 
of the crane. 

Probably when we are thinking or talking of 
a person, we recall some visual image of that 
person. I have thought what an instructive 
thing it would be, if under some magic influence, 
like that, for example, which would construct a 
' palace of truth,' it were arranged that as we 
gave out our comments on the character or con- 
duct of any person, this image on the retina of 
memory should change according to the truth, or 
rather the want of it, in our remarks. Gra- 
dually, feature after feature would steal away 
till we gazed at nonentity, or we should find 
another image glide into the field of view, 
somebody we had never seen perhaps, but to 



[ *8 5 ] 

whom the comments we were uttering really 
did apply. 

Now, the sufferers from injurious and unjust 
comment might treat the whole thing as one 
which lacked reality. The blame itself is often 
good enough, well - compacted, forcible, having 
an appearance of justice — but withal no founda- 
tion in real circumstances, so that it is only 
good, if you may say so, in a literary sense, as 
good fiction, but having no ground-work in real 
life. How little ought a thoughtful man to be 
long vexed at such stuff, immaterial in every 
sense. 

Besides, none of the great teachers have taught 
us, that to be reviled is any signal misfortune; 
and there has been one, the greatest, who has 
pronounced it to be fraught with blessing. 

In bearing neglect, the next evil to calumny, 
and a sort of disengaged shadow of it, many aids 
may be given to those who will be content to 
take them. No doubt neglect is hard, to bear 
for one who feels that he ought not to be 
neglected. But where this is justly felt, the 
neglect may generally be traced up to some 
source which is not, necessarily, a painful one. 
A man will not condescend to use certain means, 



[ i86 ] 

and yet would have what those means alone, or 
best, can give him ; or he insists, in his mental 
cogitations, upon possessing that which could 
hardly be got except with the aid of certain 
advantages joined to merit, which advantages, 
whether wisely or not, Nature or Fortune has 
denied him. Having one stout friend (as Bacon, 
before quoted, has noticed) what will it not do 
for a man? There are certain things he cannot 
say for himself. If he says them, they turn into 
shame, vain-glory, and mischief, instead of aid 
and honour to him. Well, he has do friend to 
back him at the right time, how can he get 
those advantages which such a friend could grace- 
fully obtain for him? Frequently, perhaps most 
frequently, the friend in question comes forward 
in the shape of a relation who has a direct in- 
terest in the fortunes of the man he puts forward. 
This is called having good connexions. Any 
neglected man of merit ought not to suffer him- 
self to be quite disheartened because he was not 
born with such relations. Neither were the 
poor men who dig in the fields. 

But neglect is only one phase of what man 
hates more, and suffers more from, than almost 
anything else — namely, injustice. His sensitive- 



[ i8 7 ] 

ness in this respect is very remarkable. A little 
wrong outweighs a great injury. Indeed, the 
things are not to be weighed in the same scales, 
are practically incommensurable. The sea in- 
vades a man's estate, and retires carrying away 
land and crops, leaving sand where there was 
alluvial soil : it is a misfortune ; and he has a 
dull sense of sorrow and vexation if the loss is 
one of magnitude. But the poor blind elements 
meant no harm, or if he thinks they were guided, 
he knows it was by one whose chastisements must 
be blessings. 

Again, suppose him to have spent much money 
in riotous living. Well, he thinks of this with 
shame, especially when some good comes in his 
way to do, and he sees what he might have done 
with the squandered resources. Still there was 
something for his money. He was not cheated ; 
he was mistaken. 

But observe the same man on looking over a 
bill of costs : where, often, for many items to- 
gether, it is only wrong-doing requiring to be 
paid, and he feels that when he pays it, he is 
helping to support a vicious system of things. 
It is not well to be of his family circle on the 
day when he settles those accounts, unless he is 
one of those rare and generous creatures who do 



[ i88 ] 

not mitigate their own misfortunes by unkind- 
ness to those with whom they live. No libe- 
rality of nature will suffice to soothe his mind. 
It is not a question of liberality. The same 
man who, with Luther, would say to his wife, 
Why did we not give the silver cup to that poor 
man as we had no money, will haggle over an 
unjust or unsatisfactory payment from morning 
till night. But it is a question of wisdom and 
experience: for a wise and well-informed man 
will see what must almost inevitably be the evil 
results of the particular form of laws he lives 
under (for codes are the doing of very imperfect 
creatures with a limited range of circumstances 
before them) and he does not expect to go into 
the most vexed and troublous part of human 
affairs, and come out with smooth countenance 
and unruffled garments. Neither will such a 
man be disposed to imagine that he is worse off 
than others, or has worse people to deal with. 

And, the same thing is to be said of injustice 
generally. You often hear a man making the 
somewhat simple complaint, that he only wants 
justice. Only justice! why justice requires 
time, insight and goodness: and you demand 
this in each case of the many hundreds that 
occur to you in the course of a year in which 



[ i8 9 ] 

your fellow beings have some dealings with yon. 
No — justice ! look not for it till you are in a 
state of being for which you will hardly say 
that you are yet quite fit. In truth, the con* 
sideration of what a world of misunderstanding, 
haste, blindness, passion, indolence and private 
interest we are in the thick of (perhaps the 
beauty of it as a world of trial) would go some 
little way to cure a man from vexing the depths 
of his soul, because he suffers from extortion, 
misrepresentation, neglect, or injustice of any 
kind. He is on earth : and men are unj ust to 
him. How ludicrous the complaint! 

Perhaps the wrongs we endure from unjust 
treatment would be easier to bear, if our notions 
of justice were modified a little. For my part, 
instead of picturing her, sword in hand, appa- 
rently engaged in blindly weighing out small 
groceries, a figure that would better denote the 
goddess Fortune as it seems to me, I imagine 
Justice travelling swiftly round about the earth, 
diffusing a mild effluence of light like that of a 
polar night, but followed not by her own at- 
tendants, but by the ungainly shadows of all evil 
things, envy and prejudice, indolence and selfish- 
ness, her enemies; and these shadows lay them- 



[ x 9° ] 

selves down before her in their malice, and love 
to intercept her light. The aspect of a good 
man scares them partially away, and then her 
light lies in great broad spaces on the mead : 
with most of us, it is chequered like the sunshine 
under trees; and there are poor creatures in 
whose presence all the evil shadows descend, 
leaving but a streak of light here and a spot 
there, where the hideous shadows do not quite 
fit in together. Happily, however, all these 
shadows are mortal, and as they die away, dark 
miserable places come into light and life again, 
and truth returns to them as her abodes for 
ever. 

Descending from these flights about justice to 
the more prosaic parts of the subject, I may 
notice, that mean misfortunes are often the 
most difficult to bear. There is no instrument 
of philosophy small enough to take them up and 
deal with them. A long career of small anxieties 
is also very hard to bear. 

One thing which often maintains these vex- 
ations in full force, is the shame of owning to 
our want of wisdom in the first instance. A 
man, playing in imagination his part in life, 
always, like the story books, makes his hero 



[ 191 ] 

successful in the end : and, therefore, iu real life, 
he is immensely disturbed and humiliated at 
finding that such is the devilry of circumstances, 
that if he only gives a little inlet to mischance 
by folly or incautiousness of any kind, he is 
sometimes invaded by a flood of evil. 

He bears this in secret, struggling with all his 
might and eating his own heart, as it were, 
rather than own to the folly he committed at 
first. Nothing less will satisfy him than to 
retrieve the whole misfortune, and cancel by 
success his first error. Thus we come to one 
more instance of the truth that Pride applies 
the scourge more frequently and with far heavier 
hand than Penitence; with the hand, in fact, of 
another. 

As regards the c career of small anxieties,' 
which I spoke of above, one great art of managing 
with them, is to cease thinking about them just 
at that point where thought becomes morbid. It 
will not do to say that such anxieties may not 
demand some thought, and, occasionally, much 
thought. But there comes a time when thought 
is wasted upon these anxieties; when you find 
yourself in your thoughts, going over the same 
ground again and again to no purpose, deepening 



[ *92 ] 

annoyance instead of enlarging insight and pro- 
viding remedy. Then the thing would be to be 
able to speak to these fretting little cares, like 
Lord Bur]eigh to his gown of state, when 
he took it off for the night, c Lie there, Lord 
Treasurer.' 

It must be remembered though that his cares, 
assured as he was of his mistress's favour, were 
for the most part mere business cares, and did 
not exactly correspond with the small anxieties 
which I was speaking of. These are very hard, 
I suspect, to dismiss. Perhaps the best way of 
getting rid of them is not to attempt too much 
at once, but at least to change the cares, so as 
not to let one set prey upon the mind and make 
it become morbid — just as Newton, unable to go 
abruptly from his high, absorbing thoughts to 
what most men would consider recreation, merely 
adopted a change of study, and found his relief 
therein. 

There is often a very keen annoyance suffered 
by sensitive and high-minded people, arising 
from dissatisfaction with their own work. I 
should be very sorry to say anything that would 
seem like encouragement to slight or uncon- 
scientious working, but to the anxious, truth- 
seeking, high-minded, fastidious man, I would 



[ *93 ] 

sometimes venture to say, ' My good friend, if we 
could work out our ideal, we should be angels. 
There is eternity to do it in. But now come 
down from your pedestal, and do not overfret 
yourself, because your hand, or your mind, or 
your soul, will not fulfil all that you would have 
it. There have been men before you, and pro- 
bably will come others after you, whose deeds, 
however much approved by the general voice, 
seemed, or will seem, to the men themselves 
little better than a caricature of their aspira- 
tions.' 

' How much, by the way, accomplishments of 
various kinds would come in to help men to 
get rid of over-riding small cares and petty 
anxieties. These accomplishments mostly appeal 
to another world of thought and feeling than 
that in which the little troubles were bred. The 
studious, the busy and the sorrowful might find 
in art a change of thought which nothing else, 
at least of worldly things, could give them. And 
the accomplishments I mean would be of use on 
occasions when there is no need, and where it is 
scarcely fitting, to summon forth the solemn aid 
of religion or philosophy. Not that I would 
have such aid far distant from any mind, or on 
any occasion : for there is a comfort and a sobriety 

o 



[ *94 ] 

of mind to be gained from the great topics of 
consolation which nothing else can surely give. 

In considering various forms of unhappiness, 
which has been the business of this chapter, for 
the purpose of providing some small aids and 
consolations, one form has occurred to me which 
is not uncommon, I imagine. 

It is where an almost infinite regret enters 
the mind at some happiness having been missed 
which in imagination seems the one, possible, 
present good to the person indulging the imagi- 
nation : and the men or women in this sad case 
go on all their days mourning or fretting for 
want of that imagined felicity. This must often 
occur in the midst of great seeming prosperity 
which deepens the vexation, and gives an air of 
especial mockery to it. 

To find consolation for this state of mind may 
not be easy; still there are medicaments even 
for it. Imagine the happiness in question gained, 
fond dreamer; do you not already see some 
diminution of the happiness itself — it will only 
be from lack of imagination if you do not — but 
at any rate do you not at least perceive how 
many fears such happiness would throw you open 
to ? ' Ah, Davy,' said Johnson to Garrick, after 



[ *95 ] 

going over his new house and looking at the fine 
things there, ' these are the things that make a 
deathbed terrible.' 

Every felicity, indeed, as well as wife and 
children, is a hostage to Fortune. 



Lastly, there is to be said of all suffering that 
it is experience. I have forgotten in whose life 
it is to be found, but there is some man who 
went out of his way to provide himself with 
every form of human misery which he could get 
at. I do not, myself, see any occasion for any 
man's going out of the way to provide misfortune 
for himself. Like an eminent physician he might 
stay at home, and find almost every form of 
human misery knocking at his door. But still 
I understand what this chivalrous enquirer 
meant, who sought to taste all suffering for the 
sake of the experience it would give him. 

There is this admirable common- place, too, 
which, from long habit of being introduced in 
such discourses, wishes to come in before I con- 
clude ; namely, that infelicities of various kinds 
belong to the state here below. Who are we 
that we should not take our share? See the 
slight amount of personal happiness requisite to 
go on with. In noisome dungeons, subject to 



[ 196 ] 

studied tortures, in abject and shifty poverty, 
after consummate shame, upon tremendous change 
of fortune, in the profoundest desolation of mind 
and soul, in forced companionship with all that 
is unlovely and uncongenial, men, persevering 
nobly, live on and live through it all. The 
mind, like water, as described in that beautiful 
passage in Metastasio which I will transcribe 
below, passes through all states, till it shall be 
united to what it is ever seeking. The very 
loneliness of man here is the greatest proof, to 
my mind, of a God. 

' L'onda dal mar divisa 
Bagna la valle e'l monte ; 
Ya passeggiera 
In flume, 
Ya prigioniera 
In fonte, 

Mormora sempre e geme, 
Fin che non torna al mar ; 

Al mar dov' ella nacque, 
Dove acquisto gli umori, 
Dove da' lunghi errori 

Spera di riposar. 5 

Such were my thoughts this wet day which 
I had made up my mind was to be a dreary day 
throughout, but I had hardly come to the end of 
what I had to say, when, (may it be a good omen 
that the chapter itself may bring some cheer to 



[ *97 ] 

some one in distress,) the sun peeped out, the 
drops of rain upon the leaves glistened in the 
sunshine like afflictions beautified by heavenly 
thoughts, and all nature invited me out to enjoy 
the gladness of her aspect, more glad by contrast 
with her former friendly gloom. 



CHAPTER XI. 

THE sun came out brilliantly this morning. 
To be sure, there was a chilliness in the air ; 
but if you walked about with vigour, and said it 
was a charming morning, it gradually became so. 
An eccentric friend of mine, of the Johnsonian 
school, maintains that all kinds of weather may 
be treated in a similar manner, and says that if a 
man will go out in the rain without any defence 
and pretend to know nothing about the showers, 
the rain will cease for him, each drop exclaiming, 
' It is no use raining upon that man, he does not 
mind it.' Whether my friend has a moral mean- 
ing to this fable of his, I do not know; and, in- 
deed, it is difficult to sound the depths of some 
men's humour, the deepest part of their nature. 

As I walked up and down under the shelter 
of a wall, so that I might have the full benefit of 
the sun's rays, I could not help thinking, that 
the sun had been very little worshipped by idola- 
ters. In fact, he is too manifest a benefactor to 



[ *99 ] 

be much idolized. Moreover, what the natural 
man likes to worship, is some ugly little idol, an 
incarnation of one or other of his own bad 
passions. I suppose the real explanation is, that 
the form of the sun being a simple one, essen- 
tially belonging to the inanimate world, provoked 
no desire to worship, and left no room for suffi- 
cient mystery. So, after all, it is perhaps a 
proof of the craving imagination of mankind that 
the sun has had, comparatively speaking, but 
few worshippers, while an ungainly stone, or a 
thing with many hands and legs, has enjoyed the 
tenderest adoration. 

Then I thought if our senses were finer, what 
an exquisite sight it would be, to behold all the 
inanimate world turning gently to the sun each 
day, a fact which we only perceive in the results 
of such fond looks for many years, as exhibited 
in the growth of trees : whereas, if our senses 
were more delicately apprehensive, we might see 
every leaf, bud and twig making its little way 
towards the light, and all nature, like one sun- 
flower, bending slightly forwards in a supplicating 
attitude to the sun. 

Warming with the subject I exclaimed, this is 
quite an Italian sky — rather home-made was the 
disparaging second thought. In such a mood it 



[ 200 

was very natural to think of foreign travel. 
I looked at the fig-trees against the wall, and felt 
that they must be rather disgusted at the climate 
which needed such a position for them. However, 
said I, it is only what the greatest men have had 
to endure, to live in an uncongenial clime and to 
bring forth fruit with painful culture and under 
most adverse circumstances; so you must not 
complain, though you are nailed up against the 
wall. On went my mind to a particular fig-tree 
near Cordova, from thence down the Guadal- 
quiver ; when I saw again the beautiful birds come 
out of the sandy banks of the river; and, in 
truth, I was in a full career of travel, when 
it occurred to me that I had often thought many 
things about travelling, and that it might be 
useful to put them together. So, walking up 
and down, like a peripatetic philosopher, only 
with no disciples, (which, by the way, is a safer 
thing for the discovery of truth) I put into some 
order the following remarks on travel. 

A journey has often been compared to a life. 
I suppose that in any comparison so frequently 
used, there must be some aptitude; but it does 
not strike me. Any one day is like a life, is 
indeed an epitome of it : morning, noon, evening, 



[ 201 ] 

awaking and going to sleep have all the closest 
analogy with the progress of a life. But a jour- 
ney is often very dissimilar to a life. In travel- 
ling, for instance, for pleasure, you go out with 
much hope of delight: the delight is partly 
realized; but there is much that is untoward 
and which at the time prevents a thorough en- 
joyment and appreciation of what you do see* 
You return with joy, and the journey is after- 
wards stored up in the memory as a complete 
pleasure, all the mishaps being put into, what 
the Dutch call, ' the forget book,' or only re- 
membered as interesting incidents. Clearly, one 
of the main delights is in the recollection. Now 
we cannot venture to say whether that will be 
the case with the journey of life. There does 
not appear much promise of that. 

I took a turn up and down the garden and 
thought over that last suggestion which is a very 
serious one. Soon, however, I returned to the 
subject of travelling. 

Yes, I said to myself, certainly, there is great 
pleasure in coming back after a tour (which, by 
the way, may be another great difference between 
these journeys and the journey of life) at least I 
know I am always glad to come back to that 
great, silent, unexpectorating people to whom I 



202 

belong, upon whose dominions the sun never sets, 
who are very powerful and somewhat dull, free 
as far as constitutions and forms of government 
go, but as slavish as any other nation to the great 
tyrants, custom and public opinion; a people 
indeed who do not enjoy any exuberant felicity, 
but who have humour enough to see their faults 
and shortcomings, which is some alleviation. 

But to descend more to particulars about 
travelling. The first thing is in the preparation 
for it, the mental preparation, I mean. In this 
preparation lies some of the greatest utility and 
of the greatest pleasure connected with travelling. 
And without this preparation what a small thing 
travel would be. What is it to see some tomb, 
when the name of the inmate is merely a pom- 
pous sound — the name of an unknown king, 
duke, or emperor — compared with what it is 
to see the tomb of one whose fortunes you have 
studied, who is a favourite with you, who repre- 
sents yourself or what you would be, whose very 
name makes your blood stir? The same thing 
of course applies in travel to knowledge of the 
arts, sciences and manufactures. Knowledge is 
the best excitement and the truest reward for 
travel — at once the means and the end. A digni- 
fied and intelligent curiosity, how much it differs 



[ 2 °3 ] 

from mere, inane lion-hunting; where the igno- 
rant traveller gapes at wonders which the guides 
know far more about than he does. 

With regard to the mode of travelling, it is 
curious to compare the ancient with the mo- 
dern; the free yet stately way of the former, 
the methodized yet undignified way of the latter. 
Imagine a traveller in former days setting off 
from the ancestral mansion leisurely, on horse- 
back. Within ten miles there might be an 
adventure ; and throughout the journey, which 
had not been much cleared up by the accounts of 
former travellers, there must have been a con- 
stant feeling of doubt as to what was to happen 
next, and a consequent excitement a little like 
the feeling of a great discoverer in unknown 
lands seeking after the kingdom of Prester John, 
the El Dorado, or the Fountain of perpetual 
youth; and not being certain any day that he 
might not come upon one of these wonders. 

I think it is possible to combine, occasionally, 
the advantages of modern and ancient travelling, 
especially for the vigorous and healthy. 

In the plans and modes of travelling, the 
question of companionship comes first. And 
by the way, what a hint it might give many a 



[ 20 4 ] 

young man of the difficulties to be conquered in 
domestic companionship, when he finds how hard 
it is to agree with his fellows in travel for a few 
short weeks. All the difficulties attendant upon 
companionship occur in this case of travelling. 
Indeed, the first question is, whether you should 
journey alone, solitary and unmolested; or with 
one other, when the want of profound sympathy 
and the wish to quarrel will be very painful ; or 
with two or three, when the quarrelling can 
better break out and the companions separate 
into factions. The advantages and disadvan- 
tages are so nearly equivalent, that the traveller 
will probably condemn and regret whichever 
course he takes, and therefore may take any one 
without much concern. To the very serious 
reader I may mention that the above description 
is not given quite in earnest, but it points to 
what are some of the prominent dangers of com- 
panionship. Really it is disgraceful that men 
are so ill-taught and unprepared for social life as 
they are, often turning their best energies, their 
acquisitions and their special advantages into 
means of annoyance to those with whom they 
live. Some day it will be found out, that to 
bring up a man with a genial nature, a good 
temper, and a happy form of mind, is a greater 



[ 2o 5 ] 

effort than to perfect him in much knowledge 
and many accomplishments. Then we might 
have that tolerance of other people's pursuits, 
that absence of disputatiousness, and that free- 
dom from small fussiness, which would render a 
companion a certain gain. It will not be de- 
sirable, however, to wait till that period before 
we begin our travels. 

The advantages of travel are very various and 
very numerous. I have already put the know- 
ledge to be gained as one of them. But this is 
for the young and the unworn. A far greater 
advantage is in the repose of mind which tra- 
velling often gives, where nothing else could. It 
seems rather hard though, that all our boasted 
philosophy cannot do what a little change of place 
so easily effects. It is by no magical property, 
however, that travelling does this. It is merely 
that by this change things assume their right 
proportions. The night- mares of care and trouble 
cease to weigh as if they were the only things of 
weight in the world. 

I know one who finds somewhat of the same 
advantage in looking at the stars. He says, it 
suggests a welcome change of country. Indeed, 
he maintains that the aspect of these glorious 



[ 206 ] 

worlds might somewhat comfort a man even 
under remorse. 

Again, a man's own land is a serious place to 
him, or at least has a possible seriousness about 
it, which is like a cloud that may at any moment 
come over the spot he is occupying. 

There he has known the sweetness and the 
bitterness of early loves, early friendships. There, 
mayhap, he has suffered one of those vast 
bereavements which was like a tearing away of 
a part of his own soul : when he thought each 
noise in the house, hearing noises that he never 
heard before, must be something they were 
doing in the room — the room — where lay all 
that was mortal of some one inexpressibly dear 
to him ; when he awoke morning after morning 
to struggle with a grief which seemed as new, 
as appalling, and as large as on the first day; 
which, indeed, being part of himself and thus 
partaking of his renovated powers, rose equipped 
with what rest, or alacrity, sleep had given him ; 
and sank, un conquered, only when he was too 
wearied in body and mind to attend to it, or to 
anything. 

The places where he has felt such sorrows 
may be the dearest in the world to him, may be 



[ 2o 7 ] 

sure to win him back to them ; but they cannot 
always be regarded in that easy, disengaged way 
which is necessary for perfect recreation. 

This, then, is one of the advantages of travel, 
that we come upon new ground, which we tread 
lightly, which is free from associations that claim 
too deep and constant an interest from us; and, 
not resting long in any one place, but travelling 
onwards, we maintain that desirable lightness 
of mind : we are spectators, having for the time 
no duties, no ties, no associations, no responsi- 
bilities; nothing to do but to look on, and look 
fairly. 

Another of the great advantages of travel lies 
in what you learn from your companions : not 
merely from those you set out with, or so much 
from them, as from those whom you are thrown 
together with on the journey. I reckon this 
advantage to be so great, that I should be in- 
clined to say, that you often get more from your 
companions in travel than from all you come to 
see. 

People imagine they are not known, and that 
they shall never meet again with the same com- 
pany (which is very likely so) ; they are free for 
the time from the trammels of their business, 
profession, or calling; the marks of the harness 



[ 208 ] 

begin to wear out; and altogether they talk 
more like men than slaves with their several 
functions hanging like collars round their necks. 
An ordinary man on travel will sometimes 
talk like a great imaginative man at home, for 
such are never utterly enslaved by their func- 
tions. 

Then the diversities of character you meet 
with instruct and delight you. The variety in 
language, dress, behaviour, religious ceremonies, 
mode of life, amusements, arts, climate, govern- 
ment, lays hold of your attention and takes you 
out of the wheel-tracks of your every-day cares. 
He must, indeed, be either an angel of constancy 
and perseverance, or a wonderfully obtuse Cali- 
ban of a man, who, amidst all this change, can 
maintain his private griefs or vexations exactly 
in the same place they held in his heart while 
he was packing for his journey. 

The change of language is alone a great de- 
light. You pass along, living only with gentle- 
men and scholars, for you rarely detect what 
is vulgar, or inept, in the talk around you. 
Children's talk in another language is not 
childish to you; and, indeed, everything is lite- 
rature, from the announcement at a railway 
station to the advertisements in a newspaper. 



[ 20 9 ] 

Read the bible in another tongue; and you will 
perhaps find a beauty in it you have not 
thoroughly appreciated for years before. 

As regards the enjoyments of travel, I should 
be sorry to say anything pedantic about them. 
They must vary so much according to the nature 
of the individual. In my view, they are to be 
found in the chance delights, rather than in the 
official part, of travelling. I go through a pic- 
ture-gallery, enjoying with instructed and well- 
regulated satisfaction all the things I ought to 
enjoy. Down in the recesses of my mind, not 
communicated perhaps to any of my companions, 
is a secret hope that the room I see in the dis- 
tance is really the last in the building, and that 
I shall have to go through no more. It is a 
warm day, and, stepping out upon a balcony for 
a moment, I see a young girl carefully helping 
her infirm mother out of church and playfully 
insisting on carrying the market burdens of both, 
far too heavy for her little self. I watch the 
pair to the corner of the street, and then turn 
back to see the pictures which must be seen. 
But the pictures will fade from my memory 
sooner than this little scene which I saw from 
the balcony. I have put that by for my private 

p 



[ 2I ° ] 

gallery. Doubtless, we need not leave our own 
country to see much that is most beautiful in 
nature and in conduct; but we are often 
far too much engaged and too unobservant, to 
see it. 

Then there is the new climate. How ex- 
quisite the mere sensation of warmth is to many 
persons ! Then there is the stroll in the market- 
place, or the sight of the harbour, or the pro- 
cession, or the guard-house — in short, the aspect 
of all those ordinary, but, in a strange country, 
unfamiliar things which, happily, no hand-book 
need dilate upon, or even point out, but which 
men are perverse enough to like all the better 
for that. 

The benefits which arise from making the 
inhabitants of different nations acquainted with 
one another may be considerable. How many 
things there are to be learnt on both sides: 
and how slow men are in copying the good 
from each other. An evil custom or a dubious 
one, or a disease, mental, moral, or physical, 
how rapidly it spreads over the earth! Evil 
is winged. How slowly any contrivance for 
cleanliness, or decorum, or good order, makes 
its way. If it were not that good by its nature 



[ 2" ] 

is enduring, and evil by its nature transitory, 
there would be but little chance for the welfare 
of the world. 

Tn contemplating different nations, the tra- 
veller learns that their differences are very great, 
and yet how small when compared with their 
resemblances. That intensity of dislike which 
arises at these small differences, and which even 
the most philosophical minds are apt at times 
to feel, is a great proof of the tyrannous nature 
of the human heart, which would have every 
other creature cut out exactly after its own 
pattern. 

One of the things to be most noted by an 
Englishman in travelling, is the remarkable dif- 
ference, as it seems to me, between our own and 
other nations in the amusements of the people. 
We are the people who have sent out our efforts 
to the uttermost parts of the Earth, and yet a 
great deal of our own life at home is very barren 
and uncultivated. When I have been watching 
the gamesomeness of other people, it has often 
saddened me to think of the poverty of resources 
in my own country in that way. Shows alone 
will not do. Pictures are good in their way, 
but what is wanted is something in which 
people themselves are engaged. Indeed more 



[ 2I2 ] 

persons are amused, and rightly so, in playing 
at bowls than in looking at Raphaels, Murillos, 
or Titians. Those who are most amused, if one 
may use such a word, in contemplating these 
great works, are those in whom the works pro- 
duce a secret feeling of power to create the like 
— I do not say, like pictures or even like works 
of art, but something great, if only great de- 
struction — in fact, where the works elicit the 
sympathy of kindred genius. But for the amuse- 
ments of the people, something on a very broad 
and general basis must be sought for. 

Returning, however, to the special subject of 
travelling, which I am now considering, it is 
worth notice that there is no occasion for being 
excessively emulous, or haste-bitten, in travelling 
any more than in other occupations of life. Let 
no truly observant man feel the least envious, or 
disconcerted, when he hears others talk familiarly 
of cities which are dreamland to him, the names 
of which are poetry in his mind. Many of these 
men never have seen, and never can see any 
thing, as he can see it. The wise do not hurry 
without good reason. A judicious traveller tells 
me that he once went to see one of the greatest 
wonders of the world. He gazed and gazed, each 
minute saw more, and might have gone on seeing 



[ 2I 3 ] 

into the thing for weeks, he said. Two regular 
tourists walked in, glanced about them, and 
almost before he could look round, they were 
gone. They will say, they saw what there was 
to be seen. Poor fellows! Other men might 
have instructed them : now they will have their 
own misconceptions, arising from hasty impres- 
sions, to contend with. 

I must say, though, that anything is better 
than insincerity in the way of admiration. If 
we do not care about what we see, let us not 
pretend to do so. We do not come out to tell 
lies, but rather to get away from falsehood of all 
kinds. 

There is also an observation to be made with 
respect to the enjoyment of the beauties of na- 
tural scenery, which applies not only to travel- 
ling, but is of very general application; namely, 
that we should enjoy and make much of that 
which comes in our way on everyday occasions. 
While it may be well worth the while of the 
lover of nature to be curious in looking after 
rocks, rivers, mountains, and waterfalls, yet the 
obvious, everyday beauties of nature are not to 
be disregarded. Perhaps the short hasty gazes 
cast up any day in the midst of business in a 



[ 2I 4 ] 

dense city at the heavens, or at a bit of a tree 
seen amid buildings, — gazes which partake 
almost more of a sigh than a look, have in them 
more of intense appreciation of the beauties of 
nature than all that has been felt by an equal 
number of sight-seers, enjoying large opportunity 
of seeing, and all their time to themselves. Like 
a prayer offered up in the midst of everyday 
life, these short, fond gazes at nature have some- 
thing inconceivably soothing and beautiful in 
them. There is a remark by an exquisite ob- 
server and very subtle, often very profound, 
thinker, which indeed suggested the above 
thoughts, though we have each turned the 
thing a different way, he looking at a certain 
unreality in nature, and I considering the com- 
bination of the upturned look to nature with 
the ordinary, earthly life of man. * But this 
beauty of nature,' he says, ' which is seen and 
felt as beauty, is the least part. The shows of 
the day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, moun- 
tains, orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, 
shadows in still water, and the like, if too 
eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and mock 
us with their unreality. Go out of the house to 
see the moon, and 'tis mere tinsel, it will not 



[ 2I 5 ] 

please as when its light shines upon your neces- 
sary journey.'* 

There is this, too, to be said, that this habitual 
appreciation of nature on everyday occasions may 
prevent your missing the very highest beauties ; 
for what you go to see as a sight, may never be 
shown to you under most favourable circum- 
stances; whereas a much inferior scene may be 
combined with such accidental circumstances of 
beauty as in reality to be the finest thing you 
will ever have an opportunity of beholding. We 
must not be altogether captivated by great 
names: the sincere, clear-sighted man is not; 
and has his reward for his independence of mind. 
in seeing many beauties in man and nature, 
which escape the perception of those who see by 
book alone. 

Before quitting the subject of travelling, I 
cannot help making a remark which has often 
occurred to me, but which, however, has regard, 
not so much to the travellers, as to those they 
travel amongst. It concerns all those who pre- 
side over coach -offices, diligence -offices, post- 

* Emerson. Nature — Chapter on Beauty of. 



[ 216 ] 

offices, and custom-houses. What a fine oppor- 
tunity such people have, it seems to me, to 
manifest a Christian temper. It is tiresome to 
you, O postmaster, to be asked all manner of 
questions, of which you cannot see the drift, or 
which you think you have answered in your first 
reply ; but the poor enquirer is far from home ; 
he has but a dim understanding of your language, 
still dimmer of your customs ; his little daughter 
is ill at home, perhaps ; he wants to be assured by 
hearing again what you said, even if he thought 
he understood the meaning at first: and you 
should be good-natured and voluminous in your 
replies. Besides, you must bethink yourself, that 
what is so simple to you as your daily transac- 
tions, may nevertheless be somewhat complicated, 
and hard to understand, especially to a foreign 
mind. You might, I think, carry in your mind 
an imaginary affiche, which you should see before 
you on the wall which fronts you as you address 
your applicants. 

ADVICE TO MEN IN SMALL AUTHORITY. 

' It is a great privilege to have an opportunity 
many times in a day in the course of your busi- 
ness to do a real kindness which is not to be paid 



[ 2I 7 ] 

for. Graciousness of demeanour is a large part 
of the duty of any official person who conies in 
contact with the world. Where a man's busi- 
ness is, there is the ground for his religion to 
manifest itself.' 

And we travellers, on our parts, if only from 
an anxiety to give other nations a good opinion 
of ours, should beware of showing insolence, or 
impertinence, to those who give us welcome. The 
relation of host and guest should never be quite 
effaced from the mind of either party. 



CHAPTER XII. 

I WANDERED about amongst the young 
trees this morning, looking at their different 
shades of green, and I thought if they, drinking 
from the same soil and the same air, and stand- 
ing still in the same spot, showed such infinite 
varieties, what might be expected from men. 
Then I thought of the anecdote of Charles V. in 
retirement, endeavouring in vain to make his 
watches keep time together, and the inference he 
drew therefrom of the difficulty of making men 
think alike upon religious matters. Ah, when 
it once comes to thinking, good bye to anything 
like strict agreement amongst men. 

But always amongst my thoughts to-day came 
that of the death of Sir Robert Peel, which I 
heard of last night. Sad ! sad ! such a sorry 
death for so great a man — and, as we men should 
say, so inopportune. I had hoped, as I have no 
doubt many others who take an interest in public 



[ 2I 9 ] 

affairs had done, that he would have remained as 
a great power aloof from party, a weight of private 
opinion, if we may say so, which should come in 
at the most important times, to declare what is 
thought by the impartial bystander, who, I should 
say, (varying the common proverb) does not see 
most of the game, but sees things which the 
players do not see. Then I thought of his ways, 
which had often amused me, and which I had 
learned to like; of his exquisite adroitness; of 
the dignity of the man; of the humanity, and 
of what always struck me so forcibly — of his 
amenability to good reasoning, from whatever 
quarter it came. 

Then I thought of what I am often meditating 
upon, — how the government of this country might 
be improved. 

There is no doubt that our constitution is a 
great thing, the result of long struggle and labour 
of all kinds; but still how much its working 
might be amended; and it is to that amendment 
that the attention of thoughtful men ou^ht to be 
directed. Let us look at the matter frankly on 
all sides. 

It is a great advantage that affairs are long 
considered in this country. 

It is a great advantage that scarcely any shade 



[ 220 ] 

of opinion is without a hearing in the great 
assemblies of this country. 

It is a great advantage that a number of per- 
sons are exercised in public business; and that 
our prosperity and advancement do not depend 
on one man, or even a few men. 

It is a great advantage that grievances are 
sure to be discussed. 

On the other hand, let us honestly allow that 
it is a great evil, that the choice of men to 
fill the most important offices should be chiefly 
limited to parliamentary men. 

It is a great evil that honours and places 
should be confined to them and theirs: why 
should a man be made a peer because he has 
failed in an election, or a baronet because his 
vote is much wanted ? Such things are too bad, 
and must be put a stop to. 

It is a great evil that no good measures can 
be carried swiftly — so that remedies often come 
too late. 

What an improvement it would be if peerages 
for life were permitted. It would, in my opinion, 
supply the House of Lords just that element of 
popular influence which is wanted. 

And so, again, of official seats in the House of 



[ 221 ] 

Commons ; what a benefit it would be if just 
men could be put there occasionally, whom the 
world would be glad to listen to, but whom a 
constituency will not listen to, or who are not in 
a position to ask it to listen. 

We must have many improvements in go- 
vernment. Questions are looming in the dis- 
tance which will require the ablest minds in the 
country. If we ever become more sincere as 
individuals, we shall need to express that sin- 
cerity in political action. 

It seems to me there is vast room for improve- 
ment in many branches of government — in 
finance, in colonization, in dealing with the poor, 
in the proceedings of the state as regards religion. 
For, whatever some of us may think or wish, 
religious questions of high import will not long 
be in the back ground. 

At present, the relations between people in 
power and the general intelligence of the country 
are not such as they might be. 

I know the difficulty of any sound reforms in 
government ; but if we never attempt any, they 
are sure at some time to be attempted by the 
clumsiest and coarsest mechanism. 

The loss of Sir Robert Peel is great indeed, I 
again exclaimed to myself, as I thought what 



222 

an official reformer he might have been : not 
reckless to change or blame, inclined to give 
due consideration to official persons, — a class of 
men who amply deserve it — and carrying out 
reforms, not in a spirit of condemnation, but 
of desire for increased effectiveness and force. 
What a loss in that man ! I will go and talk 
to Dunsford, I said, from whom one is always 
sure of sympathy and kindness. 

Without delay I began to turn my steps 
towards his parsonage, making my way along the 
lanes with lofty hedges, enjoying the scent of the 
sweet hawthorn, and escaping, as far as might 
be, an east wind, which with a warm sun made 
a most unpleasant combination of weather ; the 
east wind, like some small private vexation, ren- 
dering the rest of one's prosperity not merely 
unpalatable, but ill-timed. 

As I went along, I thought of the Church of 
England and of what might be its future for- 
tunes. I had just been reading the works of two 
brothers : last night I had finished an elaborate 
attack from the Roman Catholic side upon the 
Anglican Church by one brother; and this 
morning I had read a very skilful attack upon all 
present religious systems by another brother. 



[ 22 3 ] 

And I thought to myself, the Church of England 
suffers from both attacks. 

One's acquaintances who meet one in the 
streets, shrug their shoulders, and exclaim, i What 
a state the Church is in ! Oh that these ques- 
tions that divide it had never been raised.' I do 
not agree with them, and sometimes I tell them 
so. If there are these great differences amongst 
thoughtful men about great subjects, why should 
they (the differences) be stifled % Are we always 
to be walking about as masked figures i 

No doubt it is a sad thing that works of cha- 
rity and mercy should be ever interrupted by 
indefinite disputes upon points which when once 
taken up, are with extreme difficulty settled 
well, or laid aside. But then, on the other hand, 
how much good is prevented by the continuance 
of insincerity, by an insincere adherence on the 
part of men to that which they believe not. 
Besides, it is not as if all went on smoothly now : 
how much, for instance, the cause of education 
suffers from the existence of religious differences. 

Moreover, who can tell the general mischief 
produced in all human affairs by degrading views 
of religion, which more thought might enlarge 
or dispel. Men's laws and customs are merely 
their religion applied to life. And, again, what 



[ 22 4 ] 

a pity it would be if controversy were abandoned 
to the weak or the controversial only : so that, 
even for the sake of peace, it may be good for a 
man not to suppress his thoughts upon religious 
subjects, if he has any. 

For my own part, it has long appeared to me 
that our Church stands upon foundations which 
need more breadth and solidity, both as regards 
the hold it ought to have on the reason, and on 
the affection of its members. 

As to the hold upon the reason : suppose we 
were taught to study scientifically, up to a 
certain point, something that admitted of all the 
lights of study; and were then called upon 
to take the rest for granted, not being allowed to 
use to the uttermost the lights of history and 
criticism which had been admitted at first : how 
very inconclusive the so- called conclusions would 
appear to us. It would be like placing a young 
forest tree in a hothouse and saying, Grow so far, 
if you like, expand to the uttermost in this space 
allowed to you, but there is no more room after 
you have attained these limits ; thenceforward 
grow inwards, or downwards, or wither away. 
Our Church is too impersonal, if I may use that 
expression : it belongs too much to books, set 
creeds and articles, and not enough to living 



[ 225 ] 

men; it does not admit easily of those modifica- 
tions which life requires, and which guard life by- 
adapting it to what it has to bear. 

Again, as regards affection, how can any but 
those who are naturally devout and affectionate, 
which is not the largest class, have an affec- 
tionate regard for anything which presents so 
cold and formal an appearance as the Church of 
England. The services are too long; and, for 
the most part, are surrounded by the most 
prosaic circumstances. Too many sermons are 
preached; and yet, after all, too little is made of 
preaching. The preachers are apt to confine 
themselves to certain topics, which, however 
really great and solemn, are exhaustible, at least 
as far as men can tell us aught about them. 
Order, decency, cleanliness, propriety, and very 
often good sense, are to be seen in full force in 
Anglican Churches once a week; but there is a 
deficiency of heartiness. 

The perfection to be aimed at, as it seems 
to me, and as I have said before, would be a 
Church with a very simple creed, a very grand 
ritual, and a useful and devoted priesthood. 
But these combinations are only in Utopias, 
Blessed Islands, and other fabulous places: no 

Q 



[ 226 ] 

vessel enters their ports, for they are as yet only 
in the minds of thoughtful men. 

In forming such an imaginary Church, there 
certainly are some things that might be adopted 
from the Roman Catholics. The other day I was 
at Kouen ; I went to see the grand old Cathe- 
dral ; the great western doors were thrown wide 
open right upon the market-place filled with 
flowers, and, in the centre aisle, not before 
any image, a poor woman and her child were 
praying. I was only there a few minutes, and 
these two figures remain impressed upon my 
mind. It is surely very good that the poor 
should have some place free from the restraints, 
the interruptions, the familiarity, and the squalid- 
ness of home, where they may think a great 
thought, utter a lonely sigh, a fervent prayer, an 
inward wail. And the rich need the same thing 
too. 

Protestantism, when it shuts up its churches, 
or allows discreditable twopences to be paid at 
the door, cannot be said to show well in these 
matters. In becoming so nice and neat, it seems 
to have brushed away a great deal of meaning 
and usefulness with the dirt and irregularity. 

The great difficulty in reforming any church 
lies of course in the ignorance of its members. 



[ 227 ] 

Moreover, there may be great indifference to 
any Church, or dissatisfaction with it, amongst 
its members; but then people say to themselves, 
if we touch this or that thing which we dis- 
approve of, we do not know what harm we may 
not be doing to people of less insight or less 
caution than ourselves, and so they go on, con- 
tent with a very rude attempt indeed at com- 
munion in spiritual matters, provided they do 
not, as they would say, unsettle their neighbours. 
There is something good and humble in this; 
there is something also of indifference: if our 
ancestors had always been content with silent 
protests against the things they disapproved of, 
we might have been in a worse position than we 
are now. 

To lay down any guidance for action in this 
matter is very difficult indeed. According to 
the usual course of human affairs, some crisis 
will probably occur, which nobody foresees, and 
then men will be obliged to speak and act 
boldly. It behoves them to bethink themselves, 
from time to time, of whither they are tending 
in these all-important matters. 

The intellectual energies of cultivated men 
want directing to the great questions. If there 
is doubt in any matter, shall we not examine ? 



[ 228 ] 

Instead of that, men shut their thoughts up, and 
pretend to be orthodox — play at being orthodox. 
Meanwhile, what an evil it must be to the 
Church, if through unnecessary articles of faith, 
some of the best men are prevented from becom- 
ing clergymen, and many of the laity rendered 
less hearty members than they otherwise would 
be, of the Church. 

Dwelling upon such thoughts which are full 
of pain and anxiety, the thoughts of one who 
is always desirous to make the best of anything 
that is before him, and who is well aware how 
hard it is to reform anything from without, I 
reached Dunsford's quiet little parsonage. 

I found my old friend sitting in his garden 
in the very spot where I expected to find him, 
and for which I made my way without going 
through the house. In the middle of his kitchen- 
garden he has placed his bee-hives, and has 
surrounded them by a semicircle of juniper trees 
about five feet high. In front of the bee- 
hives is a garden-seat upon which I found him 
sitting and reciting Latin poetry to himself, 
which I had no difficulty in discerning, though 
I could not hear the words, to be from his 
favourite author, Virgil. Ellesmere, who views 
everything in a droll sarcastic way, says that 



[ 229 ] 

our friend has chosen this particular seat in his 
garden from its being likely to be the place least 
disturbed by his sister and his curate. Though 
very good people they are somewhat fussy and 
given to needless gesticulation which the bees 
dislike, and occasionally express their dislike in 
a very tangible manner. This spot, therefore, 
which is guarded by thousands of little soldiers 
well-armed and well-equipped, distinguished 
from their human prototypes by gaining sup- 
plies and not by wasting them, affords a very 
secure retreat for our friend where he can talk 
Virgil to himself for half an hour on a sunny 
morning. 

It was not altogether without trepidation 
that I took my seat by his side amidst innume- 
rable buzzings and whizzings ; but he assured 
me with a smile that the bees would not hurt 
me, and in a minute or two their presence was 
only like a murmur of the distant wind through 
the trees. 

I began at once to narrate to Dunsford the 
melancholy circumstances of Sir Robert Peel's 
death, which he had not heard of before, and 
which affected him deeply. Naturally his emo- 
tion increased my own. After I had told him 
the sad story, and answered his various questions 



[ 230 ] 

about it, we remained silent for a time. I 
looked at the bees and thought of Manchester 
and other of the great hives and marts of in- 
dustry : Dunsford went on with his Virgil : at 
last we thus resumed our dialogue. 

Dunsford. I do not wonder, my dear Leonard, 
that you were much affected by Sir Robert's 
death. I always felt how much you ought to 
sympathize with him. Indeed there are two or 
three minor points in which you often put me 
a little in mind of him. 

Milverton. It is strange I never heard you 
say so. 

Dunsford. I did not think you much admired 
him, or would feel pleased at being likened to 
him in anything. But this is what I mean, — it 
always appeared to me, that he had the most 
peculiar appreciation of the irrationality, and 
difficulty to manage, of mankind. This was 
one of the things which made him so cautious. 
He never threw out his views or opinions till 
the moment when they were to be expressed in 
action. He did not want to provoke needless 
opposition. In short it was clear that he had 
the keenest apprehension of the folly of the 
world : he was very obstinate withal, or, as I had 
better say, resolved; and very sensitive. He did 



[ 2 3* ] 

nothing under the hope that it would pass easily, 
and cost him nothing to do ; and yet, at the 
same time, though he foresaw distinctly opposi- 
tion and unreason and calumny, he felt them 
more perhaps than quite beseemed so wise and 
resolute a man when they did come. You best 
know whether I am right in attributing some 
of the same strength and some of the same weak- 
ness to the man who sits beside me. 

Milverton. I neither admit, nor deny; but 
surely, Dunsford, it is not unwise nor imprudent 
to expect to have every degree of irrationality 
to battle with in anything one may undertake ; 
and time is seldom lost in preparing to meet 
that irrationality; or strength, in keeping one's 
projects long before one. This is not merely 
worldly wisdom ; such conduct results from a 
deep care for the success of the project itself. 

Dunsford. Much of it is the result of tem- 
perament ; and temperament is a part of our 
nature sooner developed than almost any other. 
How soon you see it in children, and how deci- 
sively marked. 

Milverton. I cannot help thinking what a 
shrewd man you are, Dunsford, when you 
choose to be so. It is you who ought to conduct 
great law-cases, and write essays, instead of 



[ 2 3 2 ] 

leaving such things to Ellesmere and myself, and 
pretending that you are the simple, unworldly, 
retired man, content to receive your impressions 
of men and things from your pupils. I suppose 
that watching these bees, gives you a great insight 
into the management of states and the conduct 
of individuals. You recite Virgil to them, and 
they buzz into your ears bee- wisdom of the most 
refined kind. 

Dunsford. Talking of essays, may I ask, 
Mr. Milverton, what you are about? You 
have not been near me for some time, and I 
always construe your absence into some new 
work. 

Milverton. You are right in this case, but I 
mostly avoid talking about what I am doing, at 
least till it is in some state of forwardness. 
Talking prevents doing. Silence is the great 
fellow- workman. 

Dunsford. The bees? 

Milverton. They buzz when they come home : 
they are silent enough at their work. More- 
over, I am beginning to care less and less about 
criticism during the progress of work, fearing 
less you see, Dunsford, the irrationality of the 
world; for what you mainly aim to get at by lis- 
tening to criticism is not so much what will be 



[ 233 ] 

understood, as what will be misunderstood — and 
that misunderstanding arises sometimes from your 
own error in thought, sometimes from bungling 
workmanship, sometimes from the irrationality of 
mankind; or from some unfortunate combination 
of these various sources of error. My growing in- 
difference to criticism, in fact the reason why my 
steps have not been bent so often lately in the 
direction of the Rectory, I would have you to 
believe results, not from any increasing confi- 
dence in my own workmanship, but from my 
growing faith in the general rationality and 
kindliness of mankind. 

Dunsford. Humph ! 

Milverton. Besides my endeavours and aspi- 
rations are so humble — 

Dunsford. Humph ! 

Milverton. You will agree with me when you 
see what I mean. They are so humble that 
they do not require all that adverse criticism 
and consequent moulding which more elaborate 
schemes might do. For instance, I believe in 
the indefinite improveability of ourselves and 
of everything around us. Do not be frightened, 
and look up so strangely, Dunsford: I do not 
mean perfectibility. Now, if by way of car- 
rying out this belief of mine, I had any scheme 



[ 2 34 ] 

of social regeneration, in which everything and 
everybody was to be put in his, or its right place, 
of course it would have been necessary for me to 
have come very often over to the Rectory, to 
drink in sound wisdom in the way of all kinds 
of comment, objection, and elaboration, from you 
and Lucy and these wise bees. 

Dunsford. I declare, Milverton, when Elles- 
mere is not with us, you play both his part and 
your own; but go on. 

Milverton. No — but, seriously, my dear Duns- 
ford, to go on with my schemes of improve- 
ability, I assure you they are on a very humble 
basis. Looking around I see what slight things 
are often the real hinderances to the best endea- 
vours of men. I would aim to take these hin- 
derances out of a man's path. Mark you, I do 
not expect that he will therefore become a greater 
man, but he will certainly be able to act more 
like one. To descend to particulars, why I de- 
light so much in sanitary reform is not so much 
in the thing itself, if I may say so, as in the ad- 
ditional power and freedom it gives to mankind. 
I do not know what social arrangements will be 
good for the coming generation, what churches 
will be best for them, what forms of legislation ; 
but I am sure that in whatever they do, they 



[ '35 ] 

will be entangled with, fewer difficulties, and will 
act more healthfully and wisely, if they are 
healthy men themselves. 

Dunsforcl. Good doctrine, I think. 

Milverton. In the same way I would seek to 
remove all manner of social disabilities, always 
again with a view to the future, that the removal 
of these disabilities may give room for more free- 
dom of thought and action. 

Dunsforcl. I do not quite understand this, but 
do not wait to explain : go on. 

Milverton. It is for the same reasons that I 
delight in education (and you know that I do 
not mean a small thing by education) because of 
its enabling powers, to use a legislative phrase. 
Here again I do not pretend to see what will be- 
come of people when educated, or to suggest the 
forms that such discipline will ultimately fit them 
for; but I cannot but believe that it will make 
any people into material more malleable in the 
hands of the wise and good — of those who should 
be, and who, to a certain extent are, the leaders 
of each generation. Indeed, I believe that always 
as men become greater, they are more easy to 
deal with. 

Dunsforcl. I begin to see what you would 
be at. 



[ 2 3 6 ] 

Milverton. I conceive that as civilization ad- 
vances, a thousand little complexities arise with 
it. To untie them in any way may be a humble 
effort, but seems to me a most needful one. 
What we are ever wanting is to give freedom 
without licence : to free a man from mean con- 
formity 

Dunsford. By making him conform to some- 
thing higher. I think, Milverton, I have as- 
sisted in pointing this out to you when I was 
afraid that you were making too much war upon 
conformity. 

Milverton. It is only one of many things, my 
dear friend, which I have learned from you. 

Dunsford. Thank you, my dear Leonard. I 
must say you have always been most willing 
to give more than due heed to anything your 
old tutor has said, with the exception of the 
advice he used to tender to you at college about 
getting up certain problems in the Differential 
and Integral Calculus. 

Milverton. And I wish I had listened to that 
advice also. 

Dunsford. But are you not a little afraid, my 
friend, (not that I would say one word against 
any good purpose you may have) that with all 
your imaginary cultivation and enabling men to 



[ 237 ] 

act more freely and wisely by the removal of 
small disabilities, which yet I admit may be 
great hinderances : are you not afraid, that after 
all we shall advance into something very tire- 
some, somewhat of a dead level, which observers 
even now say is very visible in the world — no 
great man, but a number of decent, ordinary, 
cultivated, common-place persons? I believe I 
am now talking Ellesmere to you; for, in 
reality, I prefer the advancement of the great 
mass of mankind to any pre-eminence of a few : 
but still I should like to hear what you have to 
say to this objection. 

Milverton. I am delighted that you have 
raised it. I suspect there is a great delusion in 
this matter. The notion that there is a dead 
level in modern times is a mistake : it is only 
that there are more eminences. Formerly, one 
class or kind of men made a noise in the world, 
or at least made the chief noise; and, looking 
across the hazy distances of time, we are deluded 
by great names. An Alexander, a Timour the 
Tartar, an Attila, a Charlemagne, loom large in 
the distance. There were not so many ways to 
pre-eminence then — added to which, I should be 
very slow to connect greatness of thought, or 
greatness of nature, with resounding deeds. 



[ * 3 8 1 

Dunsford. Surely, at the latter end of the 
fifteenth, and in the sixteenth century, there were 
unrivalled great men — a galaxy of them. 

Milverton. Yes, I admit; and no man looks 
up to some of the personages of that era with 
more reverence and regard than I do : and, 
moreover, I would not contend that there may 
not be an occasional galaxy, as you have termed 
it, of such men. But all I have to contend 
against is, that the tendency of modern cultiva- 
tion is not necessarily to bring men to a dead 
level, and to subdue all real greatness. 

Dunsford. But you must admit that there is 
a certain smallness in the men of our time, and 
a foolish hurry in their proceedings. 

Milverton. No : that is not exactly what 
we have reason to complain of, but rather 
a certain coldness, an undue care for respect- 
ability, and too much desire to be safe. One 
of our most observant men, who has seen a 
great deal of the world, and always desired to 
understand the generation under him as well as 
that which came before him, says, that the young 
men of the present day are better than the 
young men of his time ; but there is one thing 
that he complains of in them, and that is, their 
fear of ridicule. To a certain extent he is right, 



[ 239 ] 

I think; only I should modify his remark a 
little, and say, that it is not exactly that they 
fear ridicule, as that they dislike to put them- 
selves in a position that may justly be made 
ridiculous. It is partly caution, partly fastidi- 
ousness, partly a fear of ridicule. 

Dunsford. Well, then, I think that each man 
is more isolated than he used to be. There is 
less of clanship, less of the rallying round men 
of force or genius. How very rare a thing it is 
for one man to devote himself to the purposes 
framed by another's mind, or to give evidence of 
something like devotion to his person. Yet this 
would often be the wisest and the noblest form 
of exertion. 

Milverton. But then there would be no origi- 
nality, as they think, and there is now a diseased 
desire for originality, which is never to be got 
by the men who seek it. All the while the most 
original thing would be to be humble and sub- 
servient to great purposes, from whomsoever 
adopted. 

At the same time, I must say that, as far as I 
have observed, the young would be very devoted 
to forward the purposes of their elders and 
superiors, whether in parliament, in offices, or in 
any other functions of civil life: and I think 



[ 2 40 ] 

that in our times, great fault has often been on 
the side of the elders in not making just use of 
the young talent lying everywhere about them. 

Dunsford. That may be. 

Milverton. Indeed, Dunsford, it is not every 
one who, like yourself, is anxious to elicit the 
powers, and to carry forward the purposes, of 
younger men. It requires a great deal of kind- 
hearted imagination to do that. 

Dunsford. You make too much of this, Mil- 
verton. It is natural that I should care about 
« 

my own pupils more than anything else. I live 
in their doings. 

Milverton. And in your new edition, that 
is to be, of the Second part of Algebra, as 
Ellesmere would say, if he were here : but, to 
return to our subject, I will tell you, at least I 
will try and tell you, in a somewhat fanciful way, 
what I think of the whole matter. 

Have you ever known well a beautiful bit of 
natural scenery, before man has come to settle 
in it, a cliff near the sea, a mead near a lake, or 
the outskirts of a noble forest? If so, you re- 
collect the delicately-rounded, gracefully indented, 
or grotesquely out-jutting forms, which the rock, 
or the hill, or the margin of the waters, or the 
outskirts of the wood had taken — forms dear to 



[ 2 4i ] 

the painter and the poet. (Here Lucy entered 
the enclosure where we were sitting.) 

Lucy. The painter and the poet — I am sure 
this is something which I may listen to, Mr. 
Milverton ; may I not ? 

Milverton. There are few persons, Lucy, who 
have more feeling for the works of painters and 
poets; and so you have a right to hear anything 
that is to be said about them. (I then repeated 
to her the former part of the sentence.) You 
then, perhaps, after an interval of many years, 
pass by the same place. A number of square 
white houses, poor in form and questionable in 
design, deface the beautiful spot. The delicate 
impressions of nature are gone, and, in their 
stead, are the angular marks of men's handy- 
work. The painter hurries by the place ; the 
poet, too, unless he is a very philosophic one, 
passes shuddering by. But, in reality, what 
forms of beauty, in conduct, in suffering, in en- 
deavour; what tragedies, what romances; what 
foot-prints, as it were, angelic and demoniac — 
now belong to that spot. It is true, we have 
lost wonderful lichens and those exquisitely-- 
coloured mosses on the rocks which were the 
delight of the artist. Perhajos there are now un- 
gainly initials in their place, illustrative however 



[ 2 4 2 ] 

of a deeper poetry than ever was there before. 
But I grow too fanciful, and must descend to 
prosaic explanations. I mean, in short, that 
though there is more cultivation (which, it must 
be confessed, effaces somewhat of the natural 
rugged beauty of the scene), there is also more 
of a higher beauty which sits beside the other 
(plain prosaic cultivation) always, though oft 
unkenned by mortal eyes. So, in the advance- 
ment of mankind, the great barbaric outlines 
are broken into, and defaced; but a thousand 
new beauties, new delicacies, even new great- 
nesses, take their place. Nature is ever affluent 
in such things; and this effect of cultivation is 
to be seen, not only in mankind, but in indi- 
vidual men. For instance, Dunsford, the very 
shyness and coldness of modern youth arises in 
some measure from the growth of tact and 
delicacy. But I need not explain further : you 
see what I mean. 

Dunsford. I think I do ; and, as it is a chari- 
table view, I wish to think it a true one. But 
I could object to your metaphor, if I chose to 
do so. 

Lucy. And is it equally true, Mr. Milverton, 
with the young ladies as with the young gentle- 
men 1 



[ 2 43 ] 

Milverton. Why, my dear Lucy, the young 
ladies are always of course more in harmony 
with nature. Though women are more slavish 
to small conventionalities than men, the real 
advance of civilization tells much less upon 
women than upon men. One, who knew them 
well, says that ' The ideas of justice, of virtue > 
of vice, of goodness, of wickedness, float only on 
the surface of their souls (consequently the 
prevailing ideas amongst men on these sub- 
jects make comparatively little impression upon 
■women), in the depths of which (their souls) 
they have Tamour propre et l'interet personnel' 
(I quote his very words) with all the energy of 
nature; and, more civilized than ourselves from 
without, they have remained true savages with- 
in ; (plus civilisees que nous en dehors, elles sont 
restees de vraies sauvages en dedans).' 

Lucy. The man is a savage himself: he must 
be a French Mr. Ellesmere. 

Milverton, They are daring words, certainly; 
but perhaps they have a scintilla of truth in 
them. However, I will come again some day, 
and endeavour to elucidate these things a little 
further. Now I see the bees are flocking home- 
wards with well-laden thighs, and I, too, must 
go back to my hive, well laden with the wisdom 



[ 2 44 ] 

to be gained from the thoughtful trees and beau- 
tiful flowers of the Rectory. 
Dunsford. 

'At fessse multa referunt se nocte minores, 
Crura thymo plense : pascuntur et arbuta passim, 
Et glaucas salices, casiamque crocumque rubentem, 
Et pinguem tiliam, et ferrugineos hyacinthos. 
Omnibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus/ 

Milverton. Now, Miss Lucy, you must trans- 
late. I know you do that with all your uncle's 
favourite bits : and to tell the truth, I have for- 
gotten some of the words. What is tilia ? 

Lucy. You must not be very critical then, if 
I do translate, and ask for every word to be 
rendered. 

Now homewards come, borne on the evening breeze, 

With heavy-laden thighs, the younger bees : 

Each in the arbutus has hid his head, 

In yellow willow-bloom, in crocus red, 

And the rich foliage which the lindens spread ; 

One common labour each companion knows, 

And for the weary swarm is one repose. 

Milverton. A little liberal, Lucy, but it gives 
some of the sense of the passage, I think; and 
you are a good girl for not making more fuss 
about letting me hear it. I really must go now ; 
so good bye. 

And so I walked homewards, thinking much 



[ 2 45 ] 

of Dunsford's mild wisdom, and how beautiful it 
is to see old age gracefully filling its high, voca- 
tion of a continually -enlarging sympathy with 
the young, and tolerance for them. As Goethe 
says, c A man has only to become old to be tole- 
rant ; I see no fault committed/ he adds, c which 
I also might not have committed.' But then it 
is a Goethe who is speaking. Dunsford has 
reached to the same level of toleration by sheer 
goodness of nature. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

ALONG, solitary ride enabled me to-day to 
bring to a conclusion a chapter which I 
had been thinking of for some time. It is 
difficult for a man, unless he is a perfect horse- 
man, to think connectedly during a ride, which 
is the very reason why horse-exercise is so good 
for the studious and the busy; but the inspirit- 
ing nature of the exercise may enable the rider 
to overcome special points of difficulty in any 
subject he is thinking over. In truth, a subject 
of any magnitude requires to be thought over in 
all moods of mind; and that alone is one great 
reason for maintaining thoughts long in mind, 
before expressing them in speech or writing, 
that they come to be considered and reconsidered 
under all aspects, and to be modified by the 
various fortunes arid states of temperament of 
the thinker. 

There is all the difference between the thoughts 
of a man who is plodding homewards on his own 



[ 2 47 ] 

legs, under an umbrella, and those of the same 
man who, on horseback, is springing over the 
elastic turf, careless whether wind or rain drives 
against him or not, that there was between the 
after-dinner and the next morning councils of 
the ancient Germans. 

And, indeed, the subject I was thinking of, 
needs to be considered in all weathers of the 
soul, for it is very large, and if I could present 
to other minds what comes under this subject in 
mine, I should have said a good deal of all that 
I may have to say on most subjects. 

Without more introductory words, for a long 
introduction would be especially out of place in 
this case, the subject in question is the art of 
coming to an end. 

Almost all human affairs are tedious. Every- 
thing is too long. Visits, dinners, concerts, 
plays, speeches, pleadings, essays, sermons, are 
too long. Pleasure and business labour equally 
under this defect, or, as I should rather say, this 
fatal superabundance. 

It must not be supposed that tiresomeness 
belongs to virtue alone. Few people are more 
pedantic and tiresome than the vicious; and I 
doubt whether if one were thrown on a desert 
island, and had only the means of rescuing 



[ 2 4 8 ] 

Blair's works and many fictions of decidedly bad 
tendency, but thought to be amusing/ one would 
not exclaim ' Blair for ever/ and hurl the fictions 
into their element, the water. 

But let us trace this lengthiness, not only in 
the results of men's works, but in their modes of 
operation. 

"Which, of all defects, has been the one most 
fatal to a good style? The not knowing when 
to come to an end. Take some inferior writer's 
works. Dismiss nearly all the adjectives; when 
he uses many substantives, either in juxtaposi- 
tion, or in some dependence on each other, reduce 
him to one ; do the same thing with the verbs ; 
finally, omit all the adverbs : and you will, per- 
haps, find out that this writer had something to 
say, which you might never have discovered, if 
you had not removed the superfluous words. 
Indeed, in thinking of the kind of writing that 
is needed, I am reminded of a stanza in a wild 
Arab song, which runs thus, 

Terrible he rode alone, 
With his Yemen sword for aid ; 

Ornament it carried none, 
But the notches on the blade.* 

* See Taitfs Magazine, July 1850, for what seems to 



[ 249 ] 

So, in the best writing, only that is ornament 
which shows some service done, which has some 
dint of thought about it. 

Then there is a whole class of things which, 
though good in themselves, are, often, entirely 
spoilt by being carried out too far and inoppor- 
tunely. Such are punctiliousness, neatness, 
order, labour of finish, and even accuracy. The 
man who does not know how to leave off, will 
make accuracy frivolous and vexatious. And so 
with all the rest of these good things, people often 
persevere with them so inaptly and so inoppor- 
tunely as to contravene all their real merits. 
Such people put me in mind of plants which, be- 
longing to one country and having been brought 
to another, persist in flowering in those months 
in which they, or their ancestors, were used to 
flower in the old country. There is one in a 
garden near me which in February delights to 
show the same gay colours for a day or two here, 
in these northern climes, with which it was wont 
to indulge the far-off inhabitants of countries 
near the Black Sea. It is in vain that I have 
remonstrated with this precocious shrub about 



be an admirable translation of a most remarkable poem 
* of an age earlier than that of Mahomet,' 



L 2 5° ] 

its showing its good qualities at so inappropriate 
a period; and in fact it can make so good an 
answer to any man who thus addresses it, that, 
perhaps, it is better to say nothing and pass by, 
thinking only of our own faults in this respect 
— and then, indeed, the shrub will not have 
flowered quite in vain, if it has been only for a 
single day. 

A similar error in not knowing when to leave 
off occurs in the exercise of the critical faculty, 
which some men use till they have deadened the 
creative: and, in like manner, men cavil and 
dissect and dispute till that which was merely 
meant as a means of discovering error and 
baffling false statement, becomes the only end 
they care about— the truth for them. 

But a far more important field for this error 
of superabundance, is in the vices of mankind. 
If men had but known when to leave off, what 
would have become of ambition, avarice, glut- 
tony, quarrelling, cruelty. Men go on conquer- 
ing for conquering's sake, as they do hoarding for 
hoarding's sake. If it be true that Marlborough 
went on gaining needless victories, wasting un- 
called-for blood and treasure, what a contemptible 
thing it is ! I say, ' If he did so, for but 



[ 2 5i ] 

a little investigation into history shows one how 
grievously men have been misrepresented, and, 
not having looked into the matter, I will not 
take the responsibility of the accusation on my- 
self. But the instance, if just, is an apt one ; 
and, certainly, there are many similar instances 
in great commanders to bear it out. But what 
a contemptible application of talent it is, that a 
man should go on doing something very well 
which is not wanted, and should make work for 
himself that he may shine or at least be occupied. 
It is absolutely childish. Such children have 
great conquerors been. 

It is a grand thing for a man to know when 
he has done his work. How majestic, for in- 
stance, is the retirement of Sylla, Diocletian and 
Charles the Fifth. These men may not afford 
particularly spotless instances, but we must 
make the most of those we have. There are 
very few men who know how to quit any 
great office, or to divest themselves of any robe 
of power. 

How much, again, this error of not knowing 
when to leave off, pervades the various pur- 
suits of men. How it is to be seen in art and 
literature ; how much too in various professions 
and various crafts. The end is lost sight of in 



[ 252 ] 

a foolish exercise of some facility in dealing with 
the means; as when a man goes on writing for 
writing's sake, having nothing more to tell us ; 
or when a man who exercises some craft mo- 
derately well for the sake of gain, confines him- 
self to that craft and is a craftsman nowhere else, 
when the gain is no longer needful for him. 

But it may be said, why speak of the art of 
leaving off : the instances you have given might 
sometimes be put under the head of not knowing 
how to begin ; or, at any rate, they might more 
legitimately come under the heads of the various 
evil passions and habits to which they seem to 
belong. I do not altogether deny this, but at 
the same time I wish to show that there is an 
art of leaving off which may be exercised inde- 
pendently, if I may so express it, of the various 
affections of the mind. 

This art will depend greatly upon a just ap- 
preciation of form and proportion. Where this 
proportion is wanting in men's thoughts or lives, 
they become one-sided. The mind enters into 
a peculiar slavery, and hardens into a creature 
of mere habits and customs. The comparative 
youthfulness of men of genius, which has often 



[ 2 53 ] 

been noticed, results from their finer sense of 
proportion than that of other men, which pre- 
vents their being enslaved by the things which 
gradually close up the avenues of the soul. They, 
on the contrary, hold to Nature till the last, and 
would partake, in some measure, if it may be so, 
of her universality. 

I hardly know anything that serves to give 
us a greater notion of the importance of pro- 
portion than the fact made known to us by 
chymistry, that but a few elements mingled to- 
gether in different proportions give things of the 
most different nature (as we suppose) and dif- 
ferent efficiency. This fact, after a considera- 
tion of the infinitely great as appreciated by the 
telescope, and the infinitely small as divulged 
by the microscope, is to my mind the most sig- 
nificant in physics. 

I fear, without more explanation, I shall 
hardly make myself understood here. I mean 
that this fact in chymistry affords a high idea of 
the importance of proportion ; and the error we 
have been considering is one that mainly arises 
from disproportion. 

For instance, this want of power to leave off 
often shows an inadequate perception of the pro- 



[ 254 ] 

portion which all our proceedings here ought to 
bear to time. Everything is a function of time, 
as the mathematicians would well express it. 
Then only consider what needful demands there 
are on that time : what forms, compliments, 
civilities, offices of friendship, relationship and 
duty, have to be transacted. Consider the inter- 
ruptions of life. I have often thought how hardly 
these bear upon the best and most capable 
of men. Perhaps there are not many more 
than a thousand persons in the long roll of men 
who have done anything very great for man- 
kind. Nations should have kept guard at their 
doors, as we fancy, that they might work un- 
disturbed; but instead of that, domestic misery, 
poverty, error and affliction of all kinds no doubt 
disturbed and distracted them — not without its 
enlightenment, and not perhaps to be wholly 
regretted for their sakes. But has any one thing 
so misled them and counteracted their abilities 
so much as this want of proportion I am speak- 
ing of, arising from their ignorance or inability 
to leave off, which has limited their efforts to one 
thing, has made the warrior a warrior only, in- 
capable of dealing with his conquests, the states- 
man a man of business and devices only, so that 
he gains power but cannot govern, the man of 



[ 255 ] 

letters a master of phrases only, the man of so- 
called science a man, like the Greek philosophers, 
who could only talk about science, skilful in that 
but never having left off that talking to make a 
single experiment. 

But surely there might be a breadth of pur- 
pose and extent of pursuit without inane versa- 
tility. As things are, it is not often that you 
find any one who holds his art, accomplishment, 
function, or business, in an easy disengaged way, 
like a true gentleman, so that he can bear criti- 
cism upon his doings in it nobly or indifferently, 
who is other than a kind of pedagogue. Much 
more difficult is it to find a man who sees the 
work before him in its just proportions and does 
it, yet does not make out of his work an obstacle 
to his perception of what besides is good and 
needful; and who keeps the avenues of his mind 
open to influences other than those which imme- 
diately surround him. 

I am ashamed when I think of the want 
of cultivation even in those who are reckoned 
most cultivated people; and not so much of 
their want of cultivation, as their want of the 
power of continuous cultivation. Few, therefore, 
can endure leisure, or in fact can carry other 
burthens than those which they have been used 



[ 2 5 6 ] 

to — like mules accustomed to carry panniers or 
packsaddles in mountainous countries, which 
steer their way when free from their burthens 
just as if they still bore them, allowing always 
the distance between the rocks and themselves 
which was necessary to clear their loaded 
panniers, a mode of proceeding which exceed- 
ingly alarms and astonishes the traveller mounted 
on these mules till he understands the reason of 
it. Both men and mules are puzzled at having 
something new to undertake : and indeed the art 
of leaving off judiciously is but the art of be- 
ginning something else which needs to be done. 

But if there is anything in which the beauty 
and the wisdom of knowing when to leave off is 
particularly manifested, it is in behaviour. And 
how rare is beautiful behaviour, greatly by rea- 
son of the want of due proportion in the charac- 
ters and objects of most persons, and from their 
want of some perception of the whole of things. 
Let any man run over in his mind the circle of 
his friends and acquaintances, also, if he is 
a well-read man, of those whom he has become 
acquainted with in history or biography; and 
he will own how few are, or have been, persons 
of beautiful behaviour, of real greatness of mind. 



[ 2 57 ] 

This greatness of niiiid which shows itself 
daily in behaviour, and also in conduct when 
you take the whole of a life, may co-exist with 
foibles, with stains, with perversities, with ig- 
norance, with short-comings of any and of every 
kind. But there is one thing which is charac- 
teristic of it, and that is, its freedom from limi- 
tation. No one pursuit, end, aim, or occupation 
permanently sullies its perceptions. It may 
be wicked for a time as David, cruel for a time 
as Caesar, even false ; but these are only passing- 
forms of mind ; and there is still room for virtue, 
piety, self-restraint and clemency. Its intelli- 
gence is not a mirror obedient to private impulses 
that reflects only that which its will commands 
for the time ; but gives candidly some* reflection 
of all that passes by. Hence, by God's blessing, 
it will know how to leave off; whereas, on 
the contrary, the mind which is hedged in by 
the circumstances and ideas of one passion, or 
pursuit, is painfully limited, be that passion 
or pursuit what it may. 

Observe the calmness of great men, noting by 
the way that real greatness belongs to no station 
and no set of circumstances. This calmness is 
the cause of their beautiful behaviour. Vanity, 
injustice, intemperance, are all smallnesses aris- 



[ 2 5 8 ] 

ing from a blindness to proportion in the vain,, 
the unjust, and the intemperate. Whereas, no 
one thing, unless it be the love of God, has such 
a continuous hold on a great mind as to seem all 
in all to it. The great know, unconsciously, 
more of the real beneficent secret of the world : 
there is occasional repose of soul for them. How 
can such men be subdued by money, be enclosed 
by the ideas of a party, or a faction, be so shut 
up in a profession, an art, or a calling, as to see 
nought else, or to believe only in one form of 
expression for what is beautiful and good. 

Passing by a mountain stream, I once beheld 
an unfortunate trunk of a tree, which, having 
been shot down the side of a hill and thus sent 
on, as the custom is in those countries, down the 
stream to find its way to the haven, had unfor- 
tunately come too near a strong eddy, which 
caught it up and ever whirled it back again. 
How like the general course of man ! I thought. 
Down came the log with apparent vigour and 
intent each time, and it seemed certain that it 
would drive onwards in the course designed for 
it j but each time it swirled round and was sent 
back again. Ever and anon it came with greater 
force, described a wider arc, and surely now, 
I thought, it will shoot down on its way : but 



[ 259 ] 

no, it paused for a moment, felt the influence of 
its fatal eddy, and then returned with the like 
force it had come down with. I waited and 
waited, groups of holiday-making people passed 
by me wondering, I dare say, what I stayed 
there to see ; but unmindful of any of us, it went 
on performing its circles. I returned in the 
evening ; the poor log was still there, busy as 
ever in not going onwards ; and I went upon my 
journey, feeling very melancholy for this tree, 
and thinking there was little hope for it. It 
may even now be at its vain gyrations, knowing 
no rest, and yet making no advance to the seas 
for which it was destined. 

So let it not be with us : caught up by no 
mean eddies which draw us to the side of the 
stream and compel us to revolve in the same 
narrow circlet of passion, of prejudice, of party, 
of ambition, of desire ; finding in constancy no 
limitation, in devotedness of pursuit no narrow- 
ness of heart, or thought, or creed ; choosing as 
the highway of our career one which widens and 
deepens ever as we move along it; let us float on 
to that unmeasured ocean of thought and endea- 
vour where the truly great in soul (often great 
because humble, for it is the pride of man which 
keeps him to small purposes and prevents his 



[ 2(5 ° ] 

knowing when to leave off with earthly things) 
where the truly and the simply great shall find 
themselves in kindred waters of far other depth 
than those which they were first launched out 
upon. 

After writing down the foregoing thoughts 
upon the art of coming to an end, which had 
been the subject of my morning's ride, I went 
out upon the lawn to refresh myself with the 
evening air. It was very clear : the stars and 
the moon were in all their splendour ; and the 
shadows of the trees lay quietly upon the grass, 
as if the leaves, for the most part so restless, 
were now sleeping on their stems, like the birds 
upon the branches. 

I had resolved that this reverie, a fitting one 
to conclude with, should be the last of which I 
would give an account. There is something sad 
about the end of anything, whether it be the 
building of a palace, the construction of a great 
history, like that of Gibbon, the finishing of a 
child's baby-house, or the conclusion of some 
small, unpretending work in literature. The 
first feelings of an author soon pass by. Those 
hopes and those fears which quite agitate the 
young pretender to fame, are equally dulled by 
failure or success. Meanwhile, the responsibility 



[ »6x ] 

of writing does not grow less, at least in any 
thoughtful mind. With the little knowledge 
we have on any subject, how we muster audacity 
to write upon it, I hardly know. 

These signs, too, that we use for communi- 
cating our thoughts, which we call language, 
what a strange debris it is of the old languages — 
a result of the manifold corruptions of childish 
prattle, of the uncouth talk of soldiers sent into 
conquered provinces, of the vain efforts of rude 
husbandmen to catch an unfamiliar tongue. 
And, if we went back to the old languages, 
with equal knowledge of their antecedents, we 
should probably find that they also were lament- 
able gatherings from forgotten tongues, huts out 
of the ruins of palaces. 

So much for the vehicle in which we convey 
our thoughts, imperfect enough in themselves. 

Then, if we turn to the people, the manners, 
the customs and the laws we have to act upon 
with these thoughts, there, too, what a mass of 
confusion is presented to us, collected from all 
parts of the earth and from all periods of 
history. 

As I thought of this, I seemed to see the 
various races who had occupied this very spot 
flit by — Briton, Eoman, Saxon, Norman, each 



[ 262 ] 

with his laws, manners and customs imprinted 
on his bearing, the wrecks of mighty empires 
shown in the very accoutrements of each shadowy 
form as it went by. And this mass of strangely- 
mingled materials is the substance that these im- 
perfect thoughts expressed in imperfect language 
have to act upon. 

And, then, what say these stars with their 
all-eloquent silence seeming to reduce all our 
schemes into nothings, to make our short-lived 
perplexities ludicrous, ourselves and our ways 
like a song that is not sung ? What a cold 
reply they seem to give to all human works and 
questionings. 

But, said I to myself, such trains of thought 
may easily be pursued too far ; we must not 
bring in the immensities about us and within 
us to crush our endeavours. Here we are ; let 
stars, or bygone times, or the wrecks of nations, 
or the corruptions of language, say or show what 
they will. There is something also to be done 
by us : we have our little portions of the reef of 
coral yet to build up. If we have not time 
to become wise, we have time enough to become 
resigned. If we have rude and confused mate- 



[ 26 3 ] 

rial to work upon, and uncouth implements to 
work with, less must be required from us ; and, 
as for these stars, the true meaning to be got 
from them is in reality an encouraging one. 

Some men have thought that one star or 
planet befriended them ; some, another. This 
man grew joyful when the ascendant star of his 
nativity came into conjunction with Jupiter, 
favourable to his destinies ; and that man grew 
pale when his planet came into opposition with 
Saturn, noxious to his horoscope, threatening the 
c House of Life.' Nor is astrology extinct : 
science only lends it more meaning, but not a 
private one for kings or potentates. These stars 
say something very significant to all of us : and 
each man has the whole hemisphere of them, if 
he will but look up, to counsel and befriend 
him. In the morning time, they come not 
within ken, when they would too much absorb 
our attention and hinder our necessary business, 
but in the evening, they appear to us, to chasten 
over-personal thoughts, to put down what is 
exorbitant in earth-bred fancies, and to encourage 
those endeavours and aspirations which meet 
with no full response from any single planet, 
certainly not from the one we are on, but which 
derive their meaning and their end from the 



[ 264 ] 

vastness and the harmony of the whole of God- 
directed nature and of life. 

So thinking, I was enabled for a moment to 
see, or rather to feel, that the threads of our 
poor human affairs, tangled as they seem to be, 
might yet be interwoven harmoniously with the 
great cords of love and duty that bind the uni- 
verse together. And so I returned to the house, 
and said, Good night, cheerfully to the friendly 
stars, which did not now seem to oppress me by 
their magnitude, or their multitude, or their 
distance. 






INDEX. 



ACADEMUS, groves of, have a competitor, 144. 
Accomplishments aid in getting rid of small anxie- 
ties, 193. 

Accuracy spoilt by being carried too far, 249. 

Administrative officer suggested, 105. 

Admiration, insincerity in, to be avoided, 213. 

Advice to a descendant who would retrieve the fortunes of 
the Author's family, 53; to men in small authority, 
216. 

Affection not generally inspired by the Church of Eng- 
land, 225. 

Affections of the mind, skill in dealing with, to be ac- 
quired, 176. 

Agreement amongst men, in thought, impossible, 218. 

Amusement necessary for man, 32, 34; should be con- 
trived for him, 34; poverty of England's resources 
with respect to, 211. 

Anglo-Saxons can afford to cultivate art, 34. 

Annals of the poor, familiar words in, 106. 

Arab song, verse of, applied to writing, 248. 

Art, the pursuit of, often incompatible with fortune, 58. 

Art of coming to an end, largeness of the subject, 248 ; 
may be exercised independently of the affections of the 
mind, 252 ; ignorance of, has limited men's efforts, 254 ; 
is but the art of beginning something new, 256. 

Astrology not extinct, 263. 

Author's thoughts on the future fortunes of his family, 44. 

Author, the first feelings of one soon pass away, 260. 



[ 266 ] 

Authority on great subjects, scarcely any mind so free 
from its influence that it can boldly apprehend the 
question for itself, 150. 

B. 

Bacon, remark from him on the need of a friend, 52 ; an 
instance of the compatibility of literature with action, 

Behaviour, the beauty and wisdom of knowing when to 
leave off particularly manifested in, 256; beauty of, 
very rare, 256. 

Bereavements, 206. 

Blair, his works preferred to fictions, 248. 

Blame often good, but only as good fiction, 185. 

Books a resource against physical and mental storms, 174. 

Borgias, the cause of new Post Office regulations, 23. 

Breadth of purpose might exist without inane versatility, 

255- 

Brutus, how his part might be played in the law, 4. 

Burke, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 

action, 71. 
Burleigh, Lord, speech of his to his gown of state, 192. 

C. 

Caesar, an instance that literature is compatible with 

great actions, 7 1 ; his cruelty consistent with greatness, 

of mind, 257. 
Calumny, ordinary source of, 181 ; most men of many 

transactions subject to, 181 ; to be looked upon as pure 

misfortune, 182; way of treating it, 182; too much 

stress should not be laid on it, 182. 
Camoens, an instance that literature is compatible with 

action, 71 ; quotation from, 159. 
Carlyle, Mr., says that a great writer creates a want for 

himself, 72. 
Censoriousness the inventor of many sins, 28. 
Cervantes, an instance that literature is compatible with 

action, 71. 
Chance delights in travelling, 209. 



[ 267 ] 

Charity, taught by error, 1 2 ; requires the sternest labour, 
31; one of the most difficult things, 31; not com- 
prised in remedying material evils, 31 ; often mixed up 
with a mask of sentiment and sickly feeling, 90; a diffi- 
cult and perplexed thing, 169. 

Charles V. his retirement majestic, 251 ; anecdote of him, 
218. 

Character, diversities of, met with in travel, a delight, 
208. 

Christianity partly to blame for the over-rigid views with 
reference to unchastity, 88; to correct political eco- 
nomy, 101 ; made a stumbling-block to many, 108. 

Christian temper, opportunities for its manifestation 
afforded to all functionaries connected with travelling, 
216. 

Church, qualities to be sought for in, 22 ; perfection to be 
aimed at in, 225. 

Churches, advantages of their being open, 226. 

Church, the, obstacles to the reform of, 226; evil of un- 
necessary articles of faith in, 228. 

Church going, hinderances to, amongst the poor in Eng- 
land, 107. 

Church of England, the, suffers from opposite attacks, 
223; its foundations need more breadth and solidity, 224; 
too impersonal, 224; deficiency of heartiness in, 225. 

Church questions, opposing facts and arguments in, seldom 
come into each other's presence, 21. 

Chymistry affords a high idea of the importance of pro- 
portion, 253. 

Civilization ought to render the vicissitudes of life less 
extreme, 88 ; its advance tells less upon women than 
upon men, 243. 

Climate of England, difficult to live in, 3. 

Colleges, an instance of misplaced labour, 8. 

Colonization, room for improvement in, 221. 

Coleridge, his explanation of the word 'world/ 108. 

Competition, evils of, considerable, 30; in length of ser- 
mons, 30. 

Competition in puritanical demonstration, injurious to 
sincerity, 30 ; the child of fear, 30. 



[ 268 ] 

Companionship in travelling, dangers of, 204. 

Companions, qualities which would render them a gain, 
20^ ; much to be learned from, in travel, 207. 

Confessor, good functions of, might be fulfilled by many- 
Protestants, 107. 

Confidence, in making any, you lose the royal privilege of 
beginning the discourse on that topic, 141 ,- should be 
put aside in bearing misfortune, 175; origin of, 175; 
difficult to lay aside, 175. 

Conquerors, great, have committed the error of super- 
abundance, 250. 

Consolation to be derived from the imperfections around 
us, 273. 

Constitutional governments have their price, 104. 

Constitution of England, advantages of, 219; disadvan- 
tages of, 220. 

Contempt not justifiable in mortals, no. 

Controversy should not be abandoned only to the weak, 
264. 

Conventionality, an enemy to the opposers of the ' great 
sin of great cities,' no; the adoration offered up to 
worldliness, no; increases the great sin of great cities, 
in. 

Conventionalities, small, women more slavish to them than 
men, 243. 

Conviction, unlimited power of a spirit resulting from, 
154 ; its expansive power, 156. 

Counteraction the true strategy in attacking vice, 98. 

Country in winter like a great man in adversity, 13. 

Courier, Paul Louis, an instance that literature is compa- 
tible with action, 71. 

Critical faculty, error in exercising it too much, 250. 

Criticism, compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's 
fresco of the Last Supper, 20; object in listening to it, 

233- , 

Cultivation, a potent remedy for the ' great sin of great 

cities/ 98 ; metaphor on, 240. 
Cultivation, general, the want of, cripples individual ex- 
cellence, 3; the want of, prevents the enjoyment of 
scientific discovery, 9. 



[ 26 9 ] 

Cultivation, continuous, should be the object for statesmen 
and all governing people, 99 ; the power of, deficient in 
most men, 255. 

Customs, evil, spread rapidly, 2 TO; good, make way 
slowly, 210. 

Cyrus, his mode of keeping the Lydians tame, 34. 

D. 

David, his wickedness consistent with greatness of mind, 

257- 
Day, a, an epitome of a life, 200. 

Dead level in men's character, notion of, a mistake, 237. 

Descartes, an instance that literature is compatible with 
action, 71. 

Description of a foreign scene from a bridge, 164. 

Despair the slave-driver to many crimes, 87. 

Despotism, the sternest, often found in social life, 39. 

Differences, great, amongst thoughtful men about great 
subjects should not be stifled, 223. 

Difficulties, intellectual and spiritual, great hearing of, 
suggested, 21. 

Diocletian, his retirement majestic, 251. 

Diplomatic services peculiarly fit to be performed by lite- 
rary men, 72. 

Disasters become possessions, 179. 

Disciples do not aid the discovery of truth, 200. 

Disproportion a main cause of the error of superabun- 
dance, 254. 

Dissatisfaction with their own work, advice to those who 
suffer from, 192. 

Division of labour partly a cause of ignorance, 9. 

Divorce, law r of, may require modification, 150. 

Domestic annoyances, mischief and vexations caused by, 41. 

Domestic servants, particularly liable to the slavery of 
conventionality, ill; temptations of, ill; improve- 
ments in the management of, suggested, 112. 

Doubts on the greatest matters the result of the falsifica- 
tions of our predecessors, 19, 

Dwellings, improvement of, one means of enabling the 
wages of the poor to go farther, 102. 



[ 2 7° ] 

Duelling, disarmed by public opinion, i££. 

Dutch, the, their ( forget book/ used for the mishaps of a 

journey, 201. 
Duties often very dubious, 168. 

E. 

Education, a potent remedy for the ' great sin of great 
cities/ 98; must continue through life, 165; larger 
views of, required, 165; suffers from religious differ- 
ences, 223 ; enabling powers of, 235. 

Ellesmere's story, 120. 

Emerson, quotation from his chapter on Beauty of Nature, 
214. 

Emigration not the only remedy for poverty, 10 1. 

End of anything, the, sadness of, 260. 

England, foreign notions of, 124; Constitution of, its ad- 
vantages, 219; its disadvantages, 220. 

English people, their genius severe, 34; would not be 
cramped by judicious regulations, 63 ; description of, 
201. 

Errors made into sins by miscalling them, 29. 

Evil carries with it its teachings, 96. 

Evils, their true proportions often not understood, 176. 

Experience gained by suffering, 195 ; of life, an aid in 
bearing injustice, 188. 

F. 

Fable of a choice being given to men on their entrance 
into life, 57. 

Family vanity exasperates rigid virtue, 91. 

Father, a thoroughly judicious, one of the rarest crea- 
tures, 95. 

Felicity, a hostage to Fortune, 195. 

Fiction has filled women's heads with untrue views of 
human life, 99; may be better than nothing for the 
mind, 99. 

Finance, room for improvement in, 221, 

Flowers, their names show that poets lived in the country, 
18. 






[ 2 7i ] 

Folly will find a place even at the side of princes, 64. 
Foresight crushes all but men of great resolution, 55. 
Freedom, clamour for, a chief obstacle to its possession, 

6; from restraint in travelling, 207* 
Freemasonry among children, 42. 
Friend, the advantage of one, 186. 
Friends not of a prolific nature, 52. 

G. 

Gaiety not necessarily an element of wickedness, 25. 
Gardens, the love of, the last refuge of art in the minds 

of Englishmen, 46. 
Garrick, speech of Johnson's to him, 195. 
Generosity of mean people does not deceive the bystander, 

154. 

Germans, simplicity of, 123. 

Goethe feared to enter upon biblical criticism, 19; says 
that no creature is happy, or even free, except in 
the circuit of law, 94 ; remark by him on toleration, 
245. 

Gospel, the, prevents the triumph of despair, 87. 

Government unfit for women, 149; many improvements 
in, required, 221 ; sound reform in, difficult, 221. 

Grand thoughts adverse to any abuse of the passions, 97. 

Great men, their abilities counteracted by a want of pro- 
portion, 254; cause of their calmness, 257; and repose 
of soul, 258 ; their freedom from limitation, 258. 

Great mind, no one thing, unless it be the love of God, 
seems all in all to it, 258. 

Great sin of great cities, the, pointed out, 83 ; mournful- 
ness of, 83 ; an accurate concentration of the evils of 
society, 84 ; nature of, 84 ; degrades the race, 85 ; feel- 
ings of the people concerned in it, 86; main cause of, 
87 ; over-rigid views in reference to unchastity a cause 
of, 88 ; charity in the virtuous recommended towards, 
88 ; want of obedience to christian precepts in reference 
to, 90; want of charity towards, makes error into crime ? 
91 ; family pride prevents charity in, 91 ; ill-manage- 
ment of parents a cause of, 93 ; uncleanliness of men a 



[ 2 72 ] 

cause of, in the lower classes, 95 ; cause of, applying to 
men, 96; the want of other thoughts one source of, 
96 ; education and cultivation potent remedies for, 98 ; 
remedies for, ico; conventionality aids to increase it, 
HO; domestic servants frequent victims to, ill; im- 
provement in men to be hoped for as a remedy, 113; 
love a preventative of, 114. 
Greatness of mind may coexist with short-comings of every 
kind, 257; its characteristic, 257; belongs to no station, 

257- 

Greatness of thought or nature not always connected with 

resounding deeds, 237* 
Greeks, perhaps prevented from becoming dominant by a 

cultivation of many arts, 34. 
Grotius, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 

action, 71. 

H. 

Happiness, personal, small amount of, needed, 195. 
Heart, the human, tyranny of, how proved, 211. 
Hinderances to men's best endeavours often slight, 234. 
History of the world, the, compared to the prints of 

Leonardo da Vinci's fresco of The Last Supper, 20. 
Home should be made very happy to children, 94. 
Horse exercise, advantages of, 247. 
House of Commons, improvement in suggested, 221. 
House of Lords, how to supply to it an element of popular 

influence, 220. 
Human affairs, almost all tedious, 247 ; threads of, might 

be interwoven with the cords that bind the universe 

together, 264. 
Human beings, their power to maintain their structure 

unimpaired in a hostile element shown in the law, 7. 
Human life, mischief of unsound representations of, 99. 
Humanity, a low view of, probably the greatest barrier to 

the highest knowledge, 97. 
Humility, taught by error, 12, 18; promotes cheerfulness, 

18; in dealing with misfortunes, 179. 
Humour the deepest part of some men's nature, 198. 
Hurry, wise men do not, without good reason, 212. 



[ 273 ] 

Hypocrisy the homage which vice pays to virtue, no. 
Hypocrites pronounced the choice society of the world, < 



Ignorance partly proceeds from division of labour, 9; 
a hinderance to Church reform, 226. 

Imagination, want of, in most men confines them to the 
just appreciation of those natures which are like their 
own, 184. 

Indulgence requires no theory to support it, 97. 

Infelicities belong to the state below, 195. 

Injudicious dress, great suffering caused by, 40. 

Injurious comment on people's conduct, considerations 
which should prevent it, or console the sufferers, 183. 

Injustice a very different thing from misfortune, and in- 
commensurable with it, 185; arises from blindness to 
proportion, 257. 

Insincerity about religion, its continuance prevents much 
good, 223. 

Intemperance arises from blindness to proportion, 257. 

Intellectual energies of cultivated men want directing to 
the great questions, 227. 

Intelligent men liberal in assigning the limits of power, 
66. 

Intelligent public opinion will prevent despotism in a mi- 
nister, 66. 

Intercommunication between rich and poor should be faci- 
litated, 105. 

Investigation into prices will prevent people from running 
madly after cheapness, 10 1. 

Irrationality of mankind to be prepared for in all under- 
takings, 231. 

J. 

James the First of Scotland, an instance of the compati- 
bility of literature with action, 7 1 . 

Johnson, Dr., one of his highest delights, 143 ; speech of 
his to Garrick, 195. 

Journey, a, how dissimilar to a life, 201. 

Judas Iscariot might have done better than to hang him- 
self, 92. 

T 



[ 2 U ] 

Justice not to be expected in this world, 189; idea of its 
personification, 189. 

K. 

Kindness, not an encourager of the e great sin of great 
cities/ 92. 

Knowledge, its doubts a hinderance to vigorous statement, 
25 ; of vice not knowledge of the world, 96 ; of the 
world, how gained, 97 ; the means and the end in tra- 
velling, 202. 

L. 

Labour of finish spoilt by being carried too far, 249. 

Lacedaemonians acknowledged the duties of a father, 169. 

Language, change of, in travelling, a delight, 208 ; im- 
perfections of, 261. 

Law, loss in, 4 ; improvement in, to be hoped for from 
general improvement of the people, 4 ; satire falls short 
when aimed at its practices, 6 ; maintained as a mystery 
by its adjuncts, 8 ; many admirable men to be found in 
all grades of, 7 ; compared to a fungus, 45. 

Laws of supply and demand overruled by higher influ- 
ences, 153. 

Lawyers, time spent at their offices the saddest portion of 
man's existence, 6 ; not answerable for all the evils at- 
tributed to their proceedings, 7; work of, compared 
with that of statesmen, 178. 

Lengthiness fatal to a good style, 248. 

Leonardo da Vinci, thoughts suggested by his fresco of 
The Last Supper, 19. 

Life, objects of, as regards this world, 25 ; the bustle of, 
keeps sadness at the bottom of the heart, 49. 

Limitation, freedom from, a characteristic of greatness of 
mind, 257* 

Literary men, more of cosmopolites than other men, 72 ; 
would be improved by real business, 73 ; plan for re- 
warding them proposed, 74. 

Literary work requires many of the qualifications of a 
man of business, 70. 

Literature affords a choice of men to a statesman, 70. 

Log, caught by an eddy, man's course compared to one, 

35 8. 



[ 2 75 J 

Logic halts sometimes when applied to charity, 89. 

Loneliness, of a thoughtful man, 15; of man here the 
greatest proof of a God, 296. 

Lorenzo di Medici, an instance of the compatibility of 
literature with action, 71. 

Love, cannot be schooled much, 99; implies infinite 
respect, 114; power of, 114; the memory of, must 
prevent 'the great sin of great cities/ 115; of God 
need not withdraw us from our fellow men, 31. 

Luther, quotation from, on tribulation, 86 ; saying of his 
to his wife, 188. 

M. 

Machiavelli, an instance of the compatibility of literature 
with action, 71. 

Malignities, why fostered in small towns and villages, 33. 

Man, his faculties frequently appear inadequate to his 
situation, 9; generally his own worst antagonist, 17; be- 
comes deformed by surrendering himself to any one 
pursuit, 73 ; an isolated being, 239 ; one rarely found 
who holds his art, accomplishment, function or business 
in an easy disengaged way, 255; one whose mind is 
open to other influences than those which surround him, 
difficult to find, 255 ; his course like a log caught by an 
eddy, 258. 

Marlborough, his victories, if needless, contemptible, 250. 

Marriage, unhappiness in, does not justify 'the great 
sin of great cities/ 150; our present notions of, pro- 
bably imperfect, 151. 

Medical men, opportunities of, for communication with the 
poor, 109. 

Men require amusement as much as children, 42; occa- 
sionally deceived by theories about equality, pg ; ill 
prepared for social life, 204; how to fit them for 
social life, 204 ; will be more easy to deal with as they 
become greater, 23g; their pursuits pervaded by the 
error of not knowing when to leave off, 2gi ; small number 
of, who have done anything great for mankind, 2g4 ; 
compared to mules carrying burdens in mountainous 
countries, 2gg. 

Men, the greatest, compared to fig trees in England, 200. 



[ 2 7 6 ] 

Men, great, imaginative, never utterly enslaved by their 

functions, 208. 
Men of genius, their comparative youthfulness results from 

their fine sense of proportion, 252. 
Men of the world, self-sufficiency of, T52; their probable 

objection to the proposed remedies for 'the great sin of 

great cities/ 153; reply to their objection, 153. 
Mendoza, an instance that literature is compatible with 

action, 71. 
Mental preparation for travelling essential, 202. 
Metaphor, probably the introducer of frightful errors, 19 ; 

essential in narration, 19. 
Metastasio, passage from, 196. 
Milton, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 

action, 71; his ' Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce/ 

arguments contained therein not easily answered, i£o. 
Mind, repose of, gained by travel, 205. 
Minister of education, duties which might devolve on 

one, 105. 
Ministers of religion, their temptations to err, 108. 
Mirabeau, men like him will have an aversion to the 

i great sin of great cities/ 115. 
Miseries of private life require to be kept down by wise 

and good thoughts, 39. 
Misfortune often makes men ungenerous, 49. 
Misfortunes exercise all the moods and faculties of a man, 

177 ; wise way of dealing with them, 178 ; mean, often 

most difficult to bear, 190. 
Misplaced labour, quantity of, 4; observable in schools, 

colleges, and parliaments, 8. 
Modern cultivation does not necessarily tend to subdue 

greatness, 238. 
Monomaniacs, too little account taken of them, 181. 
Moral writings, the great triumph of, 58. 
Murillo, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred 

genius, 212. 

N. 

Napoleon, his invasion of Russia a good opportunity for 
working out his errors, 10; an instance that litera- 



[ 277 ] 

ture is compatible with great actions, 7 1 ; probable 
effect of his worldly wisdom in not remembering too 
much his Russian campaign, 179. 

Nations, benefits arising from intercommunication of, 210 ; 
differences between, small when compared with their 
resemblances, 211. 

Native land, a serious place to every man, 206. 

Nature, considerable address required to cope with her, 8 ; 
goodness of, in permitting error, ij; habitual apprecia- 
tion of, to be cultivated, 213, 215. 

Neatness spoilt by being carried too far, 249. 

Neglect, aids in bearing it, 185. 

Newton, change of study his recreation, 192. 

0. 

Obloquy, consolation in bearing it, 180. 

Obstruction to be encountered by men in power, 64. 

Obtrusiveness of thoughts, 14. 

Officers of State ought to prevent much private expense 

in law, 5. 
Opinion, the general body of, very fluent, 180. 
Originality, diseased desire for, 239. 



Parents, ill management of, a common cause of e the great 

sin of great cities/ 93. 
Parliaments, an instance of misplaced labour, 8. 
Paternal duties, imperative, 1 69 ; difficult to fulfil, 1 69 ; 

forgetfulness of, encourages immorality, 170. 
Peace brings with it a sensation of power, 79. 
Pedagogues, most men become such, 255. 
Peel, Sir Robert, his death inopportune, 218; his good 

qualities, 218; great loss in him, 22 1; sketch of his 

character, 230. 
Peerages for life desirable, 220. 
Pensions should generally be given to the persons who 

could have done the things for which such rewards are 

given, but who have not done them, 74. 
People, modern, a mass of confusion, 261. 



[ «78 ] 

Pine wood, description of one, 78. 

Pharisees, pronounced the choice society of the world, 88. 

Philosophy, sobriety of mind from, 193. 

Physical works, waste and obstruction in, 8. 

Plato, his harsh opinion of poets accounted for, 19. 

Plausibility makes injustice hard to unravel, 127. 

Pleasure, Spanish verses on, 14; past, Sydney Smith's 
opinion of, i£; falls into no plan, 80. 

Politics, greater things may be done out of them than in 
them, 16. 

Poor, the limited education of, a mistake, 165 ; room for 
improvement in dealings with, 221. 

Pope Alexander the Sixth, to blame for the post-office 
regulations, 24. 

Portrait painting compared to the copies of Leonardo da 
Vinci's fresco of The Last Supper, 20. 

Poverty, the removal of, a remedy for 'the great sin of 
great cities/ 100 ; two kinds of, 100 ; women endure an 
undue proportion of it, 147. 

Power, in rising to it, men fail to learn how to use it, 
103. 

Practical wisdom, in dealing with vexations, 179. 

Preachers, topics of, too limited, 225. 

Pride, chastises with heavier hand than Penitence, 191 ; 
of man prevents his knowing when to leave off, 259. 

Priests should facilitate the intercommunication between 
rich and poor, 105. 

Private opinions on important subjects, by whom to be in- 
dulged in, 56. 

Property, facilities should be afforded for the poor to be- 
come owners of, 103. 

Proportion, want of, makes men one sided, 252 ; compara- 
tive youthfulness of men of genius results from their 
fine sense of, 252 ; its importance shown in chymistry, 
253 ; want of, accounts for the rarity of beautiful beha- 
viour, 256. 

Protestantism, disadvantage of its closed churches, 226. 

Proverbs seldom true except for the occasion on which they 
are used, 58. 

Prudence a substantial virtue here, 4. 



[ 279 ] 

Public meeting, noise made by a man there proportioned 

to his ignorance of the subject, 23. 
Public notaries suggested, 6. 
Public opinion, triumph of, over duelling, 155. 
Punctiliousness spoilt by being carried too far, 249. 
Puritan, absurd, the correlative of a wicked Pope, 24. 
Puritanism, thoughts on, 24 ; good as an abnegation of 

self, 28; when an evil, 28. 

Q. 

Quaker, conversation of one, 27. 

R. 

Railway legislation required earlier government interfer- 
ence, 65. 

Raphael, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred 
genius, 212. 

Rational pleasures difficult to define, 26. 

Reason, the hold of the Church on, considered, 224. 

Reasoning powers require developement in women, 109. 

Recollection one of the main delights of a journey, 201. 

Reflection on past ambitions, sadness of, 16. 

Reform, slow progress of, 157. 

Reformers, reproach made against, 155; objects of, 156. 

Regret, almost infinite, at having missed the one desired 
happiness, 194. 

Remedies, political, often come too late, 220. 

Remorse a main obstacle to outward improvement, 86. 

Relations of life, the great, difficult of performance, 93. 

Religion, comfort of mind, from, 193; room for im- 
provement in the proceedings of the state with respect 
to, 221; probable mischief produced by degrading 
views of, 223; thoughts on, should not be suppressed, 
223. 

Religious spirit, deficiency of, not concealed by outward 
deeds, 154. 

Repining person, speech made to one, 57. 

Representation and transfer of property, improvement in, 
a means of enabling the wages of the poor to go fur- 
ther, 102. 



[ 280 ] 

Respectability, undue care for, amongst men, 238. 
Responsibility of writing does not grow less, 260. 
Retired allowances for servants suggested, 112. 
Retrospect not a very safe or wise thing, 43 ; cannot be 

avoided, 43 ; how the process of, differs from that 

pursued by Alnaschar, in the Arabian Nights, 43. 
Retrospection, excessive, to be avoided, 90. 
Reveries, various forms of, 60. 
Ridicule, fear of, amongst young men, 238. 
Rochefoucault probably a dupe to impulses and affection, 

50. 
Roman Catholics, some things might be adopted from them 

in forming a Church, 226. 
Roman Emperors, the, probably maligned, 180. 
Rouen, scene in the Cathedral there, 226. 
Russian campaign, a, experienced by most men, 10. 

S. 

Sanitary measures, delay in, 65. 

Sanitary reform gives additional power and freedom to 

mankind, 234. 
Satire becomes narrative when aimed at the Law, 6. 
Savings, the investment of, a question of the highest im- 
portance, 102. 
Scandal a resource against dulness, 32. 
Schools an instance of misplaced labour, 8. 
Schoolmasters would form good means of communication 

with the poor, 108. 
Schoolmistresses would form good means of communication 

with the poor, 108. 
Scriptures, The, probable misrepresentations of, 20. 
Seduction, a poor transaction, 167. 
Self denial, when to be admired, 28. 
Self-inflicted suffering which cannot be turned to account 

for others, a loss, 28. 
Self-restraint the great tutor, 96. 
Sermons, competition in length of, 30 ; those we preach 

for ourselves always interesting, 1 2 1 ', too many preached, 

225. 






[ 28! ] 

Shaftesbury, an instance of the compatibility of literature 
with action, 71. 

Shelley, lines of his applied to love, 114. 

Shrewd writers often the most easy to impose upon, 50. 

Sidney, an instance that literature is compatible with 
action, 71. 

Silence, the great fellow-workman, 232. 

Sins, easy to manufacture, 28. 

Small anxieties hard to bear, 190; art in managing* them, 
191; hard to dismiss, 192. 

Small errors often alter the course of a man's life, 10. 

Smith, Sydney, his opinion of past pleasure, 15. 

Smoke, suppression of, 157. 

Social abuses, erroneous views of, 85. 

Social disabilities, the removal of, would give room for 
freedom of thought and action, 235. 

Social evils compared to old trees, 65; importance of 
unanimity with respect to, 156. 

Social life, returns for causes of suffering in, suggested, 39 ; 
men ill-prepared for, 204; how to fit man for, 204. 

Social pleasures, not necessarily wrong, 26; afford scope 
for charity, 31. 

Social troubles equal to national ones, 40. 

Socialism put forward to fill the void of government, 
104. 

Socrates, his philosophy cannot be imitated here in Eng- 
land, 3. 

Somers, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 71. 

Spanish colonists in America, the first, beg that lawyers 
may not go out to their colony, 7. 

Spanish poetry, quotation from, on pleasure, 14. 

Spanish proverbs, 89. 

Stars, the, thoughts suggested by their aspect, 205; speak 
significantly to all, 263. 

Statesmanship, one of its great arts, 34; always appears 
to come too late, 63. 

Statesmen, to be looked up to as protectors from lawyers, 
£; two different things demanded from, 65; their indi- 
vidual temperament affects government, 67; tempera- 



[ 282 ] 

ment desirable for, 68; principles to be inculcated in, 

69; work of, compared with that of a lawyer, 178. 
St. John, an instance of the compatibility of literature 

with action, 7 1 . 
Success depends upon the temperament of a man, 54; in 

life, man's faculties inadequate to, 11. 
Sudden distress and destitution amongst young women, 

how to be averted, 105. 
Sun, the, worshipped by few idolaters, 198; his simple 

form provoked no desire to worship, 199; all nature 

bending slightly forwards in a supplicating attitude to 

him, might be visible to finer senses, 199. 
Superabundance, error of, in the vices of mankind a field 

for it, 250. 
Swift, his imaginings not more absurd than transactions 

in the law, 6. 
Sylla, his retirement majestic, 251. 
Systems save the trouble of thinking, 69, 

T. 

Teaching difficult from want of distinct convictions, 19. 

Temperament, the best, for success described, 55. 

Temple, Sir William, an instance of the compatibility of 
literature with action, 71. 

Theology, science of, would not have existed if all clergy- 
men had been Christians, 161. 

Thoughts, at the mercy of accident, 160 ; reason for main- 
taining them long on the mind, 246. 

Time, every thing a function of, 254 ; needful demands 
on, 254. 

Timidity of mind renders women the victims of conven- 
tionality, 109. 

Tiresomeness belongs not to virtue alone, 247. 

Titian, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred genius, 
212. 

Tragedy, different phases of, 159. 

Translation compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's 
fresco of The Last Supper, 20. 

Traveller, anecdote of one, 209. 



[ 28 3 ] ' 

Travellers, hints to, on their behaviour, 217. 

Travelling must improve all men, 163; ancient mode of, 
compared with modern, 203; advantages of, 205 — 
209; enjoyments of, 209; in a carriage, delights of, 

143- 

Truth sustains great loss in Church questions, 2 1 ; carries 

in its hand all earthly and all heavenly consolations, 176. 
Tyranny of the weak, a fertile subject, 35; by whom 
exercised, 35; why endured, 35; the generous great 
sufferers from, 35; compared to an evil government, 
36 j great in quiet times, 36 ; analysis of, 36 ; its ces- 
sation suggested, 37 ; a common form of it, 37 ; reason 
for putting a limit to it, 37. 

U. 

Uncharitable speeches, a fear of, the incentive in many 

courses of evil, 92. 
Uncultivated people seldom just or tolerant, 145. 
Unhappiness, regret at having missed the one desired 

happiness a common form of, 194; medicaments for 

this form of, 194. 

V. 

Vanity arises from blindness to proportion, 157. 

Variety found in travelling diverts the mind, 205. 

Vice, its usual victims, 98. 

Vices, some of the most dangerous flourish most in soli- 
tude, 26; of mankind, a field for the error of super- 
abundance, 250. 

Violence always loss, ig. 

Virgil, quotation from, 244. 

Virtuous, the charity recommended to them, 89. 

Visual image, which should change according to the want 
of truth in the comments upon the person seen, ima- 
gined, 184. 

W. 

Wages of poor, improvement in dwellings a means of 
making them go further, 102 ; improvement in the 



[ 28 4 ] 

representation and transfer of property a means of 
enabling them to go further, 102. 

Wisdom, an aid in hearing injustice, 188. 

Women, brought up here to be incompetent to the ma- 
nagement of affairs, 7 ; their fondness for merit a cause 
of their frailty, 95 ; rarely deceived by theories about 
equality, 95 ; immense importance of a better education 
to them, 109 ; love personal talk, 131 ; do not always 
understand each other, 140; some of the nighest na- 
tures amongst them may be found in the lowest ranks, 
144; more slavish to small conventionalities than men, 
243 ; have to endure an undue proportion of poverty, 
147; a wrong appreciation of their powers circumscribes 
their means of employment, 147 ; generally deficient in 
method, 147; want accuracy, 148; new sources of em- 
ployment might be opened to them, 149; government 
not fit for them, 149. 

World, the, its advancement depends upon the use of 
small balances of advantage over disadvantage, 9 ; no 
one discovery resuscitates it, 9 ; its want of ingenuity 
and arrangement in not providing employment for its 
unemployed, 148; always correcting its opinions, 180. 

World, we are in the thick of one of misunderstanding, 
haste, blindness, passion, indolence and private interest, 
189. 

Workwomen, small wages of, 102. 

Would-be teachers, suggestions to, 22. 

Writer, a, often requires less to make things logically clear 
to men, than to put them into the mood he wishes to 
have them in, 117. 

Y. 

Youth, beauty of, 116; modern, cause of their shvness 

and coldness, 242. 
Young talent, not made just use of, 240. 



THE END. 






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